


who are you, really?

by bipercabeth



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, only for a few chapters but STILL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipercabeth/pseuds/bipercabeth
Summary: “Are you trying to get me to give up my identity?” Clarke asks.The masked man scoffs. “No. I don’t care about your name. I’m just trying to figure you out.”“Isn’t that the same thing?”“I don’t need your name to know who you are, Psyren.”“Why do you care?”orThe one where Bellamy and Clarke are both superheroes with conflicting agendas. Just one big angsty excuse to write enemies to lovers.
Relationships: Abby Griffin & Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin & Wells Jaha
Comments: 118
Kudos: 164





	1. for now, it's time to run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **When I was a child, I heard voices**  
**Some would sing and some would scream**  
**You soon find you have few choices**  
**I learned the voices died with me**  


Arkadia is a restless city. It’s a city that tosses and turns, even in the dark, quiet hours of the night. There is still pain, still suffering despite the lack of people on the streets after darkness sweeps over them.

Clarke balances on the rooftop, her hood billowing in the wind that howls along the skyline. She’s a part of that skyline now, if you look closely enough; a hooded, costumed woman perched atop a building, listening to the city cry. 

Gradually, she lowers the walls of her mind, spreading her consciousness over the surrounding blocks to observe, unsure if she wants to hear what she’s searching for. Sounds of humanity rapidly crowd her mind: an over-anxious performer practicing, their annoyed neighbor, a fighting couple, someone crying over lost love. Nothing she can act on. 

This part of patrol will never get easier, she’s sure. Clarke is eager to prove herself, to finally use her powers for good, but hoping for tragedy to befall an innocent person so she can intervene feels like the opposite of what a hero should do. At least, that’s what her limited research of old superhero movies tells her. 

But there’s a murderer on the loose. Clarke thinks she’s allowed to want to catch them, and she can’t unless they attack. It’s okay to be eager as long as she gets there before they hurt someone. 

It has to be a fellow metahuman; there’s no way they would’ve made it past the high security places to pull off such high-profile kills. 

Whoever it is, they have guts. Clarke will give them that. Taking down three prominent government workers in a week is no small feat, even for a stronger meta. Maybe they’re a phaser, or have invisibility. Surely stealth is a part of the picture here. 

Clarke pauses her mind sweep and presses her hands against her mask. It doesn’t have any special properties outside protecting her identity, serving as a reminder of why she’s here in the first place:

To finish what her father started. 

That would be easier if she had any knowledge of what he was doing before he died, but she’d been a kid then. She had only just gotten her driver’s license—her powers had only just started coming in. Her father was a telepath, like her, with telekinesis stronger than she could ever dream of developing her own. 

Three years. It’s been three years without him, and she’s only just found the suit he left her. 

There was a note attached to the suit’s flexible grey and black fabric. Clarke reached for it with delicate fingers, like it might unravel at her touch, and read in her father’s handwriting ‘_Do good. Wear the mask. Tell no one.’ _

_ Tell no one_, she thinks bitterly, _ because that worked so well for him. _

He had to have known. He couldn’t have left her that note without knowing what would happen to him. 

Clarke smooths her hands over her face, over where the mask cannot protect the exposed skin of her jaw from the night air. It’s in these times she’s grateful for her dad’s ingenuity, particularly the warmth of her head to toe suit. Her face may be a little cold, but she’s sure she’ll still be able to patrol even in Arkadia’s harshest winter. 

She presses her gloved hands to her face, sighing at the warmth her suit provides before redirecting her attention back to the streets below. 

That’s when she hears it. 

A panicked man’s voice rings out in her mind. _ ‘He’s here! Get upstairs, get as far away as you can. We’ll hold hi—’ _

The voice is silenced almost as soon as it begins, and Clarke can’t find the person it belongs to when she searches. 

She scrambles off her ledge to drop to the next rooftop over, using her powers to soften her landing. Adrenaline pumps through her system as she closes her eyes to search for more panicked voices, praying she isn’t too late to save them. 

The panicked man’s consciousness is gone. Clarke is confident enough in her powers to know that means he’s dead. 

After a few agonizing moments with nothing to hear but the billowing wind, Clarke feels more pain and panic isolated in a building a block away. 

Exerting as much energy as she can into locating the fight without taking away from her levitation, Clarke leaps from the rooftop, doing her best to ignore her stomach as she free falls for a few floors before righting herself. The streetlights race under her as she propels herself toward the commotion, attempting to pinpoint the exact floor. 

She stops trying to latch onto individual minds when the third one falls silent in two minutes. Instead, Clarke focuses on the cloud of panic on the tenth floor of Alpha Tower, though she senses the lone person ascending to the twelfth floor—probably the person the first man told to run. 

They’ll be trapped upstairs unless Clarke gets to them first. 

She shatters a window on the twelfth floor and hopes this person won’t charge her for the expense in return for her saving their life. Gunshots and the sound of fists hitting flesh echo up the staircase. 

People are still alive there, still fighting a battle they must know they can’t win. 

But there’s a chance Clarke can. 

Unable to leave the guards behind to die, Clarke races downstairs to stop the meta from killing more people. 

When she turns the corner, the smell of blood hits her like a brick wall. Bodies litter the floor, identifiable as guards only by the patch on their jacket sleeves. What used to be an office building is torn to pieces, cubicles decimated by the meta fighting the last guard in the rubble. 

Every inch of the man before her is powerfully built, even under the armor of his costume. Broad shoulders give way to a tapered waist, the sheer _ power _ of his movements visible in the sharp contrast. 

He jumps in and out of the guard’s range, a blur of red and black in the flickering office lights. There are seconds where Clarke swears he’s teleporting as the lights strobe, but it’s evident his power lies in strength. Maybe agility as well, or maybe his strength just gives him an extra boost. 

He wastes no time after striking down the final guard, punching with a force so great that Clarke hears bones snap from where she stands. The guard falls to the ground gasping like a fish, his chest caved in from where the meta’s fist landed. His glazed eyes fall on Clarke in the doorway as he lays there, leading the meta’s gaze to her. 

For a moment the blazing anger in the meta’s eyes makes Clarke wonder if he’s an elemental in addition to his super strength. She doesn’t know if that’s even possible, but she can’t rule it out.

The red of his suit makes his brown eyes look like an arsonist’s daydream; Clarke thinks he could burn this building down with sheer force of will. 

“You here to save the day?” the meta sneers at her, his foot hovering over the skull of the gasping guard. His voice is rough with an unnatural rasp. Some people aren’t lucky enough to get a costume with a voice modulator from their superpowered fathers. 

She hears the challenge, the doubt in his voice and straightens her spine, hoping her short frame doesn’t undercut her confidence. 

“What if I am?” She narrows her eyes at him, intending to keep him talking while sending out a few feelers to his mind. If she can understand why he’s here—

“Wait!” Clarke cries. The meta eyes her warily, but stops an inch shy of the guard’s nose. “He can’t stop you. You don’t have to kill him.” 

“He knows my name,” he sighs, his voice disappointed yet resigned in a way that makes Clarke uneasy. “I have someone to protect.” 

He looks at her then, anguish alight amidst the fury in his eyes, and Clarke almost pities him.

And then he brings his boot down. 

There’s a sickening _ crunch _ and the sound of blood rushing onto the rubble, the guard’s limp limbs hitting the ground. Clarke fights the urge to rush forward, fights every instinct to save him. She’s been working under her mother long enough to know what it looks like when someone is beyond saving. 

“You don’t know my name,” the meta starts, wiping his boot on the office carpet. “But are you going to try to stop me?” 

A threat hangs off the end of his question, and Clarke can see herself on the floor among the guards; her brain, her only weapon, spewed out among the office supplies; her family at another closed-casket funeral for a Griffin superhero that refused to back down from a hopeless fight. 

_ Her brain. _

Clarke searches for the person upstairs and finds them on the top floor, their thoughts reading similarly to a 911 call. The police will be here soon; she just has to hold this meta off until then. 

“I’m not going to try,” she starts, smirking at the obvious relief on his face. He doesn’t want to kill her. She’ll use that to her advantage. “I’m _ going _ to stop you.” 

His costume hides most of his face, but not his mouth, which slips from an near smile to a grimace. 

He rolls his broad shoulders and lowers his stance. “Then I’m sorry for what I have to do.” 

Clarke closes her eyes. “Me too.” 

Just as the meta takes off for her, Clarke wills the rubble of the room to rise and crash on him. She doesn’t want to kill him, just slow him down. 

Realization dawns on his face just as it’s covered by debris, and Clarke doesn’t spare him another glance as she darts out of the room. She barricades the door, rips the stair rails from their posts to create barricades behind her, and takes off for the top floor, levitating herself up the rest of the staircase. 

Burying someone with super strength may not have been one of Clarke’s better ideas, she realizes as she hears pounding on the door she left the meta behind. She counts to five before the door blows off its hinges, clanging as it falls to the floors below. 

She doesn’t dare look back at him. She has to trust that she’ll be fast enough. She can do this. 

At the top of the staircase is a hastily barricaded door. Clarke huffs a laugh at the shoddy lock and broom handle once she opens it. As if that would keep the man downstairs at bay. 

The click of a gun registers in her mind, as does the fear radiating off the man holding it to her head. 

“Are you with him?” he demands. 

“Would you trust me if I said no?” she counters, turning to him without a care for how his finger tightens over the trigger. “You’d be dead if I was.” 

She takes in his business attire, the blood that is clearly not his own spattered on the pristine fabric, and thinks of the guards who gave their lives for him downstairs. 

“Listen, we’ve got a minute at best before that maniac busts down the door, so I need you to tell me why he’s here.” Clarke looks at his shaking hands still holding the gun. “I’ve already jammed that, so you might as well put it down.” 

Hesitantly, the man lowers his weapon. Clarke reads _ Kaplan _ on his corporate name tag. 

Footsteps pound in the staircase, metal groaning as the meta dismantles Clarke’s barriers. 

“Look, he said he was protecting someone. If you can promise their safety—” 

“No. I’m protecting people too.” He cocks his gun like Clarke jamming it means nothing. “And the only way to do that is to put the son of a bitch down.” 

“If you promise their safety—” 

“I said _ no _. I appreciate your help, but this isn’t your fight.” Kaplan sets his sight and his gun on the door just as it rattles from the sheer weight of the meta’s steps. It bangs once, twice—Clarke wills it to hold in place—three times. 

There’s just enough time between the door flying off the hinges and the meta sprinting into the room for Clarke to throw a desk at him. It doesn’t do much to deter him, but it gives her an opportunity to haul Kaplan out of immediate danger. She hears the click of his useless gun over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. 

“You _ bitch_,” Kaplan curses. “I’m sure he’ll thank you for saving his life before he takes both of ours.” 

Clarke shoves him in a corner a little harder than necessary. “Stay put.”

She turns back to face the meta, who seethes with rage as a whirlwind of ordinarily harmless office supplies crash around him; chairs, desks, computers, office decor. 

Even from where she stands, Clarke can see the way his eyes narrow at her. “You don’t seem like the type to protect murderers.” 

“Really?” Clarke crosses her arms among the chaos, smirking as he dances to dodge her ammunition. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m stopping one.” 

“You have no ground to stand on,” he grunts as a paperweight catches his jaw. A bruise blooms on his tan skin. “You have no clue what you’re talking about.” 

“Then tell me.” 

He barks out a harsh laugh. “And _ why _ would I do that?” 

Clarke realizes that he’s breaking free a moment after he bounds toward the desk where she left Kaplan. He’s trying to get past her, not go through her, so Clarke plants herself in his way. 

It happens faster than Clarke can manage. One second she’s lunging into the meta’s way, the next pain explodes all over her body. 

He punched her, but barely, if the ease with which he crushed the guard’s chest is any indicator. It’s still enough to send Clarke flying. Pain erupts from her jaw when his fist lands, but it’s nothing compared to the agony in her head. 

Grief—agonizing, all-consuming grief—courses through her when the meta makes contact. White-hot anger and fierce love accompany it, but every cell in her body screams with the sheer pain of it all. She’s never felt someone else’s emotions so viscerally. She’s only felt grief like this once in her life. 

She speaks without thinking and saves Kaplan’s life in doing so. 

“He killed your parents,” she croaks, suddenly aware of the tears that escape when she blinks at his stiff frame. 

He pauses. “Mom,” he corrects. “And my sister too if I’m not careful.” 

“We were merciful to let Aurora have _ one _child,” Kaplan emerges from the desk with his gun in hand. Clarke knows it won’t work, but he must bank on her not telling the meta. 

Or he’s trying to kill the meta before Clarke finds out the extent of his guilt. 

The meta stiffens at the sight of the gun, shooting Clarke a glance before turning back to the man in front of him. 

“She was too volatile,” Kaplan continues. “She risked lives every time she stepped outside. To let her raise a child was unsafe, both for you and those around you. Her powers should never have been passed on.” 

Clarke can see the muscles in the meta’s jaw tick as Kaplan drawls on, undeniably trying to buy time. 

“And what does she do with that second chance? How does she repay us? With another betrayal.” 

“With an accidental pregnancy,” the meta snarls. 

“There are ways to deal with such things.” Kaplan’s face is snide and proud. 

The meta tenses, poised to strike, and he’ll find Kaplan defenseless when he does. 

Kaplan turns his steady gaze to Clarke, his intentions clear on his face: _ either he dies, or I do. _

Clarke could unjam his gun. She could. 

But he killed a man’s mother, and it sounds like he intends to kill a child. 

It also occurs to Clarke that he knows this meta’s identity and hasn’t made a move to expose it. Clarke notes the gruesome murders of the past week, the ease with which the meta crushed a man’s skull. He must be powerful to inspire so much fear. Even now, Kaplan doesn’t name him. 

That or he’s killing everyone before they have time to utter his name. 

In her deep thought, Clarke nearly misses the meta grabbing for one of the knives strapped to his thigh. 

She sees a glint of silver through the air and stops it mere inches from Kaplan’s nose, but it’s too late. The meta knows Kaplan’s gun won’t work and lunges forward before Clarke can change her mind. 

Clarke throws herself into the fray without hesitation. She focuses first on the meta, knowing Kaplan is the lesser threat.

She weaves in and out of his guard, landing punches wherever she can. His armor makes it more difficult to find soft spots, but she lands a solid blow to the back of his neck where the helmet and collar of his armor don’t cover. 

One punch. All he has to do is land one good punch, and Clarke is done for. _ Dead_. Adrenaline pumps through her body. She will not be sent back to her mother in a box. She will not be sent back to her mother in handcuffs. 

She will not be sent back to her mother at all. 

“This won’t bring your mom back,” she grunts, ducking below the swing of his arm. 

He parries her blow and steps back to rush her again. “No, but it’ll save my sister.” 

“And what happens when it’s done? They won’t stop looking for you.” A thrown punch. A miss. Regroup. “How will you protect her from prison?” 

“Too late for that,” he growls. “And I’ll die before I let them take me.” 

“Where does that leave her?”

“Alive without anyone knowing her name.” 

Resolution blazes in his eyes, his very soul burning like liquid flame. Clarke realizes in this moment that there is no reasoning with a man on a warpath, and that’s exactly what he is. 

But that doesn’t mean he deserves to die. 

She remembers his pain, the way it burned her entire body, and it makes sense for him to be on fire. 

His anger is a firewall keeping her out of his mind. Every move he makes against her is pure instinct, a reflex done without a second thought. Reflexes take too much to read into while fighting for your life. Clarke has to keep her focus on moving, not trying to get in his head. 

Of course, then he lands a punch. 

Clarke has seen bones break before; she knows what it sounds like. 

She raises her hand to block his blow only for pain to shoot up her arm, electricity and agony running up her nerves. The ground rushes toward her, or she to it, and she slams against it.

A gun clicks somewhere behind her, but she can’t locate it to jam it. Her head is swimming, her arm throbbing, and it’s all she can do to stay conscious. 

“Any last words?” Kaplan smiles. She can _ hear _ his arrogant smile. 

Clarke turns to look at the standoff. The meta is a few feet away from Kaplan, who has his gun pointed squarely at the meta’s face. 

She summons the last of her strength only to face a choice. She could subdue the weapon in Kaplan’s hand, but the meta is a weapon himself. Occupied by the blinding pain in her arm, Clarke doesn’t have enough energy to stop both. 

All she’s wanted to do her entire life is save lives. Now she finally gets a chance, but only at the expense of another. To take a life to save one is a paradox Clarke didn’t sign up for. 

Two people can die here, or one person can. 

Kaplan’s smug grin flashes in front of her even when she closes her eyes. The meta’s pain joins it.

She hears the click of a gun.

She jams it. 

Kaplan pulls the trigger, but nothing happens. The bullet tugs against Clarke’s wishes, wants to bury itself in a body, to tear through flesh, but she keeps it in the chamber. For a girl whose only crime was being born instead of a grown man making his own decisions. That’s who she will save today. She can deal with the meta after. 

The meta lunges forward when the pieces click together. Clarke figures it’s her punishment to watch the man she’s sentenced to death die. 

She doesn’t expect it to be quick or merciful, but it’s over in seconds. The meta closes the distance between Kaplan and himself, grabs a hold of him, and breaks his neck. A life taken, just like that. 

Kaplan’s body falls in slow motion. His knees hit the ground as the gun falls from his limp hand, clattering uselessly to the floor. Clarke watches him fall forward, body stiff with lingering fear of death—fear that will outlive the man it once belonged to. 

The meta turns toward her, his frown deep as he looks from Kaplan’s body to Clarke crumpled on the ground. 

Clarke struggles to her feet, ready for a fight. Her right arm is the broken one, luckily. She can still throw punches with the left if it comes to that. 

“Why did you let me kill him?” The meta’s voice is gruff, confused. He looks at Clarke with narrowed eyes. 

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone,” she manages. 

His face hardens. “I know. What changed your mind?” 

“Your sister.” 

“So, what, you’re just going to let me go on my way?” 

“No. I saved your life today, that doesn’t mean I won’t save someone _ from _you later.” 

He tenses, his fists clenching like second nature. 

“You can’t protect them all,” he insists. 

Clarke shrugs, wincing when the movement jostles her arm. The meta’s eyes drop to the way it’s bent, taking in how it hangs uselessly by her side. 

Shouting echoes up the staircase, the unmistakable sound of someone barking orders reaching Clarke’s ears. 

She levels herself with the meta, straightening her spine and looking into his blazing eyes. 

“Maybe not, but I can try.” 

* * *

Trying, Clarke has since discovered, is a child’s strategy. 

But she _ was _a child when she looked her first meta in the eyes and promised to try, so desperate to prove herself, to make a difference. 

She has long since lost track of the number of metas she’s faced, but she knows exactly how many lives she’s taken. 

One. 

The argument has played out in her head so many times, and this is its conclusion on kinder days. She not only allowed this man’s death, but she played a part. She made the choice. 

She killed Kaplan. 

Those who came after him were the ones Clarke was actively fighting to save; there was nothing more she could do for them aside from lay down her life. If she did that, who would defend the next person on that meta’s list? And if they fought on opposing sides, their death was an accident, not something Clarke made a conscious decision to allow. 

Today has not been so kind. 

Today marks six years since that fateful night, the first time Clarke got blood on her hands without the intentions of saving the life of the person it belonged to. 

Today she thinks of every life her mistakes cost. She thinks of all the people who came after Kaplan and her not doing enough to save them. The meta beat her to them every time, killing each with the same ease as Kaplan. 

_ Nero_, she heard them call him. It was a name he gave himself: _ the madman of Rome_. 

Clarke hadn’t had the luxury of naming herself, which seems more like a burden the more she hears _The Psyren_—mind pun and all. Whatever journalist coined the name deserves a raise, she thinks as she pulls her short hair out of her scarf. Winter is early this year, and unkind in its return. 

She walks the streets as Clarke Griffin, a med school dropout and struggling artist. Not the daughter of Abby Griffin, not the kid Jake Griffin left behind, but as _ herself_. 

Yet the line between Clarke and The Psyren is blurry on the best of days. It’s hard to cleave your life into two clean halves. She shoulders two burdens, impossible to separate in their inherent overlap. 

Faces pass Clarke on the busy sidewalk, and she wonders how many of them have loved ones she’s failed to protect. Six years is a long time to fuck up, and when Clarke fucks up, people die. 

Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket, dragging her from her thoughts long enough to pull it out and frown at the screen. A text from Wells beams up at her, asking if she’s almost at their favorite coffee shop. Clarke doesn’t bother responding and instead makes quick work of the single block separating her from her best friend. 

Cold outside air gives way to the welcome embrace of the coffee shop atmosphere, enveloping Clarke in warmth and the sweet smells of coffee and pastries. She skips the line and searches the tables, knowing he beat her here with enough time to grab them both drinks. His insistence upon buying her coffee when they meet up used to rub her the wrong way, but his generosity is far less frustrating on this side of becoming a med school dropout. She’ll paint him something next time he needs a gift for someone at the fundraisers he goes to. 

The burden on her shoulders gets a little lighter at the sight of Wells amidst the chaos of weekday coffee rush, not because he bears any of it, but because he makes her forget the ugly side of her life for a while. 

It’s not that she doesn’t _ want _to tell Wells—hell, Clarke knows it’d make her life easier—but whenever she wants to, she thinks about—

“Hey, Clarke!” Wells appears in front of her in her distraction. “Thanks for coming, I know this week is hard for you.” 

_ That_. She thinks about that statement and the baggage it holds. 

Clarke gives him a soft smile and hopes it looks less like a grimace than it feels. Judging how the corners of his mouth stutter in their attempt at a grin, it doesn’t. 

There are so many things she wants to say to fill the silence between them, and she can voice exactly zero of them. What a friend she is. 

Wells notices the way she swallows uncomfortably and hands her a coffee before she can burst into tears. Their fingers brush on the handoff, catching Clarke off guard. She’s gotten better at controlling her telepathy, but sometimes it gets out of control when she isn’t prepared. 

She’s never prepared around Wells. 

A wave of loss washes over her, and she withdraws like she’s been stung. She sees Wells adjusting his tie in the mirror, solemn and stoic as he heads to the wake. She sees herself in a black dress, unable to offer him a hand to hold as they lower his father into the ground. 

She pulls back from his mind and sees her own gloved hands holding Thelonius Jaha as he dies, fear in his eyes that she could have spared him from had she gotten there five minutes earlier. 

Wells doesn’t know. He can _ never _ know. 

But that means lying to him, and often. That was one skill Clarke was never eager to develop, but that’s the life she chose. Lies roll off her tongue more often than the truth. Given the opportunity to weigh them both against each other, Clarke couldn’t promise the scale would tip in favor of truth. 

Like now, when he asks her how she’s doing and she tells him she’s fine. He doubts her of course, raising a suspicious eyebrow, but he doesn’t push. That’s one of Clarke’s favorite things about Wells: his boundaries (and his respect for her own). 

Well, most of the time. 

“Your mom wanted me to give you her love,” he says, lifting his coffee cup to his lips like a shield from her responding glare. 

“You can keep it,” Clarke grumbles, taking a drink herself. The hot coffee scalds her throat on the way down, but the pain is grounding. It gives her time to think while Wells continues talking, ignoring how much she doesn’t want him to. 

“How long is it going to take you to forgive her? You still have one parent, Clarke.” 

“Yeah, and that parent is the reason I don’t have two,” she snaps. The coffee in her cup hums with energy, a manifestation of the anger that wants to explode. 

Shutting down her powers is now second nature. A few deep breaths, some focus on her _ own _ brain and her walls coming up, and her coffee swirls to a stop. 

“Clarke, I’m worried about you,” Wells starts, his eyebrows scrunching together to prove his point. “You don’t get enough sleep, you don’t go anywhere, you—” 

“I go places,” Clarke protests. “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“Okay, you don’t go anywhere _ without me_.” He crosses his arms at her, a sad sort of smugness on his face, like he doesn’t want to be right. 

Clarke drops her gaze. “I went out with Maya a few weeks ago.” 

“Scoping out the new gallery while _on the clock_ doesn’t count.” 

Silence hangs heavy between them, straining against the white noise of the coffee shop with each passing second. 

Clarke is the one to break it, her tentative and solemn voice out of place in the jostling energy of morning rush. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

Wells sighs. “I don’t know. But Clarke, you’re 25. It’s not too late to do the things you want to do.” 

“What do_ I _ want to do?” Clarke asks, unsure how Wells would know the answer when she herself doesn’t.

“Leave Arkadia, for starters. I don’t think you’ve ever said it, but I know you hate this place. It holds too much pain for you.” An almost shameful look settles on Wells’ face. “And I don’t know what’s keeping you from throwing yourself into being an artist, but I can tell you’re still holding back. I saw your profile after all that art therapy. You’re talented. Why haven’t you put any of that out there?” 

“You want me to sell the art I made to cope with my dad’s death?” 

“No! God, no. I just don’t understand why—” 

“Yeah, you don’t understand. Wells, I love you. You’re the most important person in my life. But you don’t know what you’re talking about. For my sake, I need you to stop.” Clarke tries to keep her voice gentle, knowing his intentions are pure, but she can’t help that some bitterness seeps in despite her effort.

Wells senses the boundary she’s putting up and ducks his head, respecting it and her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I crossed a line.” 

“You did,” Clarke agrees. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and she lets them rise. “But you were trying to help.” _ It’s not your fault you can’t._

“Speaking of trying to help,” Clarke leans forward and sets her chin in her palm, “how is being Arkadia’s newest hero treating you?” 

“Oh please, it’s not like I’m wearing a mask,” he deflects. 

“No, you’re fighting as yourself, which is even braver. Also more reckless, but I’ll give you this for now.” 

“I don’t know if you could call speaking at a few protests heroism.” 

“Wells, let me congratulate you. You’re doing more against my mother than I ever could.” 

There’s a second where Wells inhales, intent on proving her wrong, until Clarke raises an eyebrow at him and he deflates. 

“I just think the registry is wrong,” he shrugs. “And I’ve got the resources to do something about it. I have to use that.” 

“Not everyone would,” Clarke counters. “That makes you a hero.” 

He moves to protest one more time until Clarke slaps his hands over the table. 

“Take the compliment and tell me about how it’s going.” 

A look of undeniable pride crosses Wells’ face as Clarke prods him. 

“It’s… slow, to say the least. But I think we’re making progress. People are mobilizing, and it helps that Arkadia metas are a lot, uh, _ quieter _ than the ones in other big cities. There are still some rogue forces, but it’s not like we’re in New York. It’s a lot easier to convince people not all metas are bad when they haven’t burned down half the city.” 

“If you don’t give yourself some credit I’m literally going to kill you.” 

“Okay, I made some progress at the last Alpha Tower fundraising banquet. I didn’t get much time with your mom, but Kane and I got to talking about the registry after dinner.” Wells leans in closer, excitement beaming on his face. “He can’t say much, but I can tell he’s against how they’ve done it. I don’t think he’ll come out with it without more assurance that destroying the registry will do more good than bad, but I think he has good intentions. I can work with good intentions.” 

Clarke purses her lips and “That’s where you’ll struggle with my mom, I’m assuming.”

“Clarke, I know you don’t want to hear this, but she thinks the registry is a good thing. She’s just too far removed to see the pain it’s causing.”

“I think she’s been close enough to see the pain it’s caused from day one.” Clarke swallows, angry at herself for her emotionality. 

Wells hangs his head. “Maybe I won’t have to change her mind to change the policy then.” 

Clarke meets his eyes, praying that he’s right. “Hopefully.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **When I was 16, my senses fooled me**  
**Thought gasoline was on my clothes**  
**I knew that something would always rule me**  
**I knew the scent was mine alone**  

> 
> *slaps fic* this baby can fit so many tropes in it.  
So! I recently binged The 100, and this concept has occupied my mind since I finished. I'm a sucker for shared trauma and bellarke is just *chef's kiss*  
This fic will probably end up being a mammoth, so the 13 chapters I have planned may change, but I'm comfortable with that number for now. I'm in college and working, so I'm not going to promise regular updates, but I always give a heads up on my tumblr before I upload! I'm so excited to get into the nitty gritty of this fic and explore, I hope y'all enjoy!!  
Songs for this chapter are Run Boy Run // Woodkid and Arsonist's Lullaby // Hozier ! 


	2. see me bare my teeth for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Who, who are you really?**  
**And where, where are you going?**  
**I've got nothing left to prove**  
**Cause I've got nothing left to lose**  


The Griffin Estate is among Clarke’s least favorite places in this city, but she swings her legs through her childhood window and leaps to the floor anyway. Of all the safe places to enter, of course the least detectable has to take her here. Every time her boots hit the soft carpet, Clarke swears she’ll sneak out without sparing the room a single glance. Yet somehow she always ends up rifling through the mess of canvases, sketchbooks, and art supplies scattered haphazardly. 

To a stranger’s eye, it looks like Clarke still lives here. Her bed is made, the floor is a mess, and her desk is untouched from the day she left. For all anyone knows, Abby Griffin’s daughter could come home any minute and find comfort in knowing her room is waiting exactly as she left it. 

Nothing brings Clarke less comfort. 

She pushes past the clothes that were hastily thrown on the floor years ago and makes her way to the door, listening for the top floor’s security rotation. A guard passes every thirty minutes, using the top floor as a vantage point to monitor the gala below. They never venture into her room. 

Tonight’s guard is five minutes away, leaving Clarke restless in the face of her old life untouched. She doesn’t let herself search her closet, which is undoubtedly still the mess it was both when she left and checked it a few months ago. That closet will only bring back memories of finding her suit, of tears shed while clutching the last gift her dad gave her. She doesn’t look at her floor or the clothes scattered on it (that she would take if she weren’t afraid someone might notice). 

Instead Clarke drifts toward her desk, rifling through the papers there. Wells’ words about art therapy ring in her head as she runs her gloved fingers along the charcoal, along the faces she scribbled in a frenzy to get her emotions out of her body. 

Her dad’s face is the most frequent in her art. There are portraits of him smiling, that crinkle by his eyes so distinctly drawn that Clarke knows it was out of fear of forgetting. Every flashbulb memory she has of him is scattered across the pages and canvases in this room. Clarke wonders if that’s why her mother hasn’t changed anything. 

But then she looks at the last picture in the stack, and all traces of sympathy for her mother vanish. 

Before her is her father, his features stoic as he is led from their home—this house. His hands are cuffed behind his back, more a gesture of comfort for his captors than a real restraint. He could’ve escaped in seconds if he so wished, and everyone knew it. 

It was the last time Clarke saw her father in person. There were flashes of his face on TV, but those weren’t real, weren’t him. _ This _is Jake Griffin as he wanted to be remembered. Clarke will be damned if she doesn’t at least do that for him. 

Heavy footsteps against the expensive wood flooring of the hallway signal the passing of the guard. Clarke carefully rearranges the sketches the way she found them, her hands aching to take them with her. She ignores the ache out of fear that her mom will notice something missing. 

Before she can consider her mother stepping foot in this room and the implications it brings, Clarke steels herself and walks into the hallway. 

She’s met with smooth music lilting through the air, brought to life by a string quartet in the hall. Her vantage point on the third floor conceals her in the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, and the railing of the balcony gives her columns to duck behind if someone wants to admire the sparkling chandelier dangling in the center of the hall. 

Figures flit along the floor, clumping for conversation and gossip like normal. As always, her mother and Marcus Kane float above them, though they’re occasionally approached by a worker or two. She takes in their fancy garments, the proud way every person in the room holds themselves, and wrinkles her nose as much as her mask allows. 

Kane is the only one who doesn’t stand so tall—all straight spine and lifted chin. Instead, his shoulders almost sag while he follows Abby Griffin around the floor, as if he carries a burden in doing so. It’s not something Clarke noticed before her conversation with Wells. 

Slowly, carefully, she reaches out to the floor, prodding at minds she perceives as soft targets, hoping that office gossip will point her in the right direction. Different voices assault her mind, but she’s able to sort through them. 

_ Complaint about the office asshole. Complaint about paperwork. Gossip about office romance. Complaints about— _ Wells? 

It shouldn’t surprise her to see him here given the nature of his activism, but Clarke has staked out enough galas to know that Wells isn’t a regular. He goes to public events: fundraisers, rallies, protests. Private galas at the Griffin Estate aren’t exactly his forte. 

Yet he cuts through the hall like a man on a mission, his sights set on Marcus Kane. Clarke doesn’t have to read his mind to know what he’s up to, though she wishes she did. Transparency is one of her favorite things about Wells, but it doesn’t serve him well in his field, where everyone had a hidden agenda. He’s too upfront in that aspect. 

Wells’ mind isn’t something Clarke has to focus on reading. She isn’t sure when it began or how it works, but at some point she realized she’s more aware of his presence than most people. Wells can’t walk into the room without her knowing, and she can always sense when he’s in danger. 

Clarke’s job might be easier if she was on the ground with him, schmoozing it up in an uncomfortable dress that matches his midnight blue suit. She could hang on his arm and dance with the company, the physical contact maximizing her efficiency. It’s simple in theory. 

But gazing out at the gala, Clarke sees Wells step in to kiss her mother on the cheek. His discomfort registers in Clarke’s mind, along with bitterness, guilt, and regret. Still, he smiles radiantly, cracking some joke to butter up Abby and Kane. 

Wells is too transparent to be political, whereas Clarke is too guarded. It takes a snake to recognize a snake, and the elegant gala is teeming with serpents. It wouldn’t take long for someone to see Clarke for what she is: a liar. The slope is too slippery for her to even consider it.

Not to mention it would mean speaking to her mother. 

A presence emerges in Clarke’s mind as she looks down at the gala—one she hasn’t felt in a long time. She doesn’t believe it until it intensifies, the intruder’s brain busy with devious intent that makes Clarke bristle. She turns to her left and sees him clear as day.

Nero, the madman of Rome, killer of at least 26 government and corporate officials in the month that Clarke fought him alone, stands near the railing. The colors of his costume blend into the shadows better than the paint splatters on Clarke’s gray costume conceal her, but it doesn’t look like he’s trying to hide. The thought worries her.

He walks with a sense of purpose, not sparing a glance at the socializing gala-goers. Luckily, he hasn’t spotted her yet; he’s too focused on making his way toward the hallway where a staircase leads to the gala. 

The staircase where a silent alarm will broadcast their whereabouts to the entire security team. 

Ordinarily, Clarke wouldn’t care that he was about to incriminate himself, but too many factors converge here. Nero getting caught would lead to increased security at these events, which means Clarke can kiss her eavesdropping nights out goodbye. There’s also a strong chance that Nero would fight and _kill_ his way to freedom. Clarke can’t chance that. 

Instead of turning tail, Clarke locates Nero’s mind with ease and screams into it. 

_ STOP. ALARM AHEAD. KEEP WALKING AND THEY’LL KILL YOU. _

Maybe she stretches the truth, but it’s the only way she’s certain he’ll stop. 

Her plan backfires when a knife comes flying in her direction, a stream of silver and death with her name on it. 

Clarke stops it just short of her forehead, where it would’ve met its mark square between her eyes. 

_ Hey, asshole, I’m trying to save you. _

Knife in hand, Clarke follows to where Nero has stopped just before the staircase. The two survey each other, eyes burning with an intensity housing six years of unresolved tension. Six years, and neither one had definitively come out on top. Nero killed his targets, but only by beating Clarke to them. It was never a fair fight, and they both knew it. 

His armor remains mostly unchanged, the same red and black armor as before, the same red helmet leaving only his jaw and neck uncovered. The muscles of his jaw clench in irritation, sparking a similar annoyance in Clarke. If he thinks he can come into her territory and kill people, he’s got another thing coming. 

“Well?” he prompts her, cutting through the tense silence. 

Clarke spins his knife in her hand, admittedly not above intimidation tactics. “Why are you here?” 

The asshole has the audacity to _ smirk_. “You sure do make a habit of sticking your nose into other people’s business, don’t you Psyren?” 

She holds up his knife, not bothering to feign disinterest. They both know she’s far too invested. “You do know I can put this through your chest with a thought, right?” 

“You can, but you won’t,” is his calm response. 

His confidence bothers her. “It’s been a while. Do you really want to bet on that?” 

“If you were going to kill me, you would’ve let me trip that alarm. You didn’t, which means you need something.” Nero leans against the wall, seemingly relaxed. 

Clarke glances into his mind to find confidence, amusement, and annoyance. After all the times they’ve fought—all the times she nearly _ bested him_—he’s _ annoyed_. 

Fury blinds Clarke as she lunges forward, pushing Nero against the wall with the force of his own knife at his throat. 

“Listen, asshole,” she snarls into his ear, “You killed twenty-six people in a _ month_. I don’t give a _ fuck _ what you’ve done since then. That’s all I need to know. But I am working on something important here, and I am _ not _about to let you ruin it.” 

It’s like he doesn’t process what she’s saying. Confidence still exudes from his body language, even when he’s pinned between Clarke and the wall. 

“How’s your arm?” he taunts her, turning so that their faces are mere inches apart. 

“Never better.” She jabs it harder into his stomach to prove her point. 

“You remember what my power is, then?” 

“Clear as day.” 

“Then you see the mistake in—” 

Nero’s fists clench as he strains to strike Clarke—whether to make a show of throwing her off or to kill her, she doesn’t know. Instead of accomplishing their goal, his limbs freeze in place, held by the iron fist of Clarke’s telekinesis. 

Clarke steps back from Nero but wills the knife to stay in place. Anger and—_at last_—a bit of fear creep into his eyes. 

“Strength doesn’t mean much when you can’t use it,” she tuts. Power and adrenaline rush through her; she has one of the most powerful metas in Arkadia pinned before her. 

“So,” she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Why are you here?” 

Nero’s jaw clenches again, and Clarke rolls her eyes. 

“You know I can find out anyway, right? I’m giving you a chance to tell me.” 

“Why?”

“Your window is closing in three… two…” 

“_Fine! _ I’m here about the registry.”

Clarke’s heart leaps into her throat. “What about it?” 

“How they lure people into registering. They’re playing dirty.” Nero’s fists clench and unclench as anger seeps into his voice. “It’s starting to affect my neighborhood. I can’t let that happen.” 

All the fury drains from Clarke’s body at the anguish in his voice. Against her better judgement, she releases him from her hold. 

Nero jerks forward before he catches himself, rolling his shoulders and rubbing where the knife left an angry red line against his throat. 

“You want to dismantle the registry?” she asks.

“What meta doesn’t?” he scoffs. He must see her hope, because he groans, “God, you’re here for that too, aren’t you?” 

“I’ve been coming to these for years for that exact reason.” 

“Care to compare notes?” 

Clarke takes a second to examine Nero, who has maintained a healthy distance since she released him. His helmet blocks enough of his face that it’s difficult to get a read on him, but his mouth clearly presses into a thin line. He isn’t smiling the way his tone suggests. She peeks into his thoughts. 

_ Blah blah blah, white noise. White noise. Blank thoughts. Come on, you can do this. Holy fuck, don’t say your name. God, she probably already knows it. Fuck. No, blank mind! Not thinking anything interesting. Or at all. Absolutely nothing going on up here. _

Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Nothing you couldn’t find out on your own,” he responds through gritted teeth. 

“You don’t want me in your head.” 

“Wow, what gave that away? Was it the mask?” 

“Correction: you don’t want me in your head? Then tell me what I want to know.” 

_ Why is she giving me the option? _ he thinks.

“Because depending on how far I need to search, I could seriously fuck up your mind,” she responds out loud. 

“Get out of my head,” he growls. 

“Answer my question,” she counters. 

“I found out which piece of shit runs the new program.” Heavy silence hangs between them. “And I’m here to kill her.” 

Any veil of respect dissipates. “So we’re back to this?” 

Nero’s brown eyes catch the light of the chandelier. “Looks like it.” 

“Killing her won’t change anything. Someone else is just going to step into her position.” Clarke watches Nero, trying to see if her words reach him. “We have to dismantle the system if we have any chance of stopping the registry.”

Nero stays silent for a beat. “We?” 

“Look, I can find out ten times as much information in five minutes if you point her out to me. She’s more useful alive. It’s just—” Clarke closes her eyes and searches for the guard “—we’ve got ten minutes until the guard is here. Seven until he can see us. I need you to…” 

Clarke freezes, unsure if she wants to continue. What she’s proposing means putting her trust in Nero, a man she’s seen kill countless times, even if for a second. 

If it were for anything but the registry, Clarke would say no. 

Nero observes her, confusion clear on his face. 

The fact that it’s not frustration or hatred puts Clarke at ease slightly. “I need you to watch my back while I dig through her head. I don’t have much of a concept of time when I go deep.” 

“Didn’t you say going deep could fuck up someone’s mind?” he asks. It’s not a rejection. He doesn’t leap at the opportunity to stab Clarke in the back. It’s what she needs to keep moving. 

“If we can find out how they’re finding people, we can slow them down and save lives while we dismantle the registry.” 

“That’s a whole lot of ‘we.’” 

“For seven minutes.” 

“_We _ for seven minutes.” He pauses, his eyes darting to the hall below. “Let’s get moving before we only have six.” 

Nero identifies the woman as Clarke leads them to a good vantage point, one that’s closer to her old room if the situation calls for a quick escape. 

The woman is in deep conversation with Abby Griffin, because the universe refuses to grant Clarke a single favor. 

“Psyren, if we’re gonna make it out of here unseen, you gotta get a move on,” Nero reminds her. 

Instead of thanking him, Clarke rolls her eyes pointedly before closing them. 

Her consciousness rears its head and pulls her toward Wells first, but Clarke reins it in to focus on her target. She narrowly avoids latching onto her mother—a near catastrophic disaster—before securing the right person. 

Sifting through a person’s mind is a strange experience, one Clarke avoids if she can. Wandering aimlessly around someone’s consciousness is dangerous in more ways than one. Go too far into someone’s mind, step on the wrong repressed memory, and they have a meltdown. 

The registry is a relevant topic to the galas given the nature of the event, which is why Clarke feels safe verging into this woman’s mind on a whim. Her ideas are already present in her subconsciousness, meaning Clarke shouldn’t have to dig far to find them. And if she stumbles over the wrong thoughts, hopefully the unknown potential triggers of the gala will cover her tracks. 

Another part of going through someone’s mind that throws Clarke for a loop is how shockingly human it makes everyone. The first thing Clarke learns about this woman isn’t her name (though it would be helpful), it’s what her last text to her husband was. 

_ I’ll be home soon, love you baby. _

There’s a ridiculous amount of emojis as well, but Clarke can’t afford to pay them much attention. She sets about learning this woman from the inside out. 

_ Youngest daughter of two. Hates dogs because she was bitten as a kid. Grew up in New York, but moved to Arkadia for her job and her husband. Married for nearly a year. Psychology degree with a specialization in social psych. Works for a company in Alpha Tower. Researcher. _

This is where Clarke has to tread lightly. She’s past the surface and now must maneuver her way around this woman’s head without literally burning her brain. She’s talking to Abby about her work, making it reasonable for her to think of her own, Clarke reasons.

Clarke digs deeper into the woman’s head, browsing her plans for work with increasing amounts of horror. Not everything is easy to find, and the farther Clarke goes into unvoiced ideas, the more difficult the searching gets. Secrets fight being brought to light, even subconsciously. Clarke doesn’t have the time to ease them to the surface. Brains fight to protect themselves, and this woman is no exception. 

She wrenches the deepest one to the forefront of the woman’s mind before she loses grip of it. 

A moment later, Clarke comes back to herself, slumping forward against the railing. 

Nero’s voice is gruff in her ear. “Six minutes are up. You get what you need?” 

“Yeah,” she chokes out, trying to stay quiet while gasping for air. “There’s a room two doors down on the left. Guard never checks it.” 

“What did you see?” 

“I’ll tell you in there,” she gasps. 

Nero’s hands come under her arms to help her up, and Clarke jerks away like she’s been burned. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

Nero sighs. “This isn’t the time for some high and mighty bullshit. You’re shaking.” 

Clarke pulls herself upright, leaning on the rail more than she’d like to before staggering to the wall to hide herself from wandering eyes. 

“Her mind fought me,” she manages. “Took a lot. Touch is tricky. If you touch me, I could latch onto yours instead. Brains aren’t meant to hold two consciousnesses, and I had to go _ into _ hers to find what I needed.” 

Nero nods and opens her bedroom door, careful to avoid her touch as she passes. 

“So,” he begins as the door latches shut behind him. 

Clarke slides down the wall at the foot of her bed. “Don’t move anything. The girl hasn’t been back here in years. They’d notice if anything changed.” She watches Nero lower himself to the floor opposite her. He keeps his legs under him like he’s ready to run at a moment’s notice. Clarke can’t blame him. 

“You were right. She’s in charge of her division.” A lump forms in Clarke’s throat, and she swallows it roughly. “They’re canvassing, gathering stats, figuring out where the highest concentration of metas is. I knew other divisions were working on locating the cause of the mutation, but this… this is different.” 

“Different how?” he growls, reminding Clarke that this is a personal issue for him. She needs to tread lightly if she’s going to stop him from killing this woman. 

“They’re focusing on communities. Some places offer healthcare, others food. All to get people to disclose whether or not they’re metas.” Her heart rate slows enough for her to come back to herself. A steady throb develops in her temple, so she massages it as she speaks to calm herself. 

Clarke’s gloves rub against the edge of her mask. “That’s what’s in motion so far. They’re building the registry with unwilling participants too. Apparently their propaganda isn’t moving people to sign up fast enough.” 

“That doesn’t seem like much for her to fight you over,” Nero comments, his voice frighteningly neutral.

“It wasn’t. She has ideas, new programs.” 

“Such as?” 

The only light in the room comes from the window and under the door, cloaking Nero in a strange dichotomy of silver moonlight and the golden glow of the gala chandelier. Moonlight falls downward on half of his face; casting long shadows where his mask curves around his cheekbones. She can see every scuff in the armor that has stopped a blow and wonders how many would’ve killed him. On this side, he looks mysterious and young. His eye is shadowed, too dark to make out, but his jaw is prominent. Clarke can make out the way his muscles flex in anticipation as she considers how to phrase her next words. 

The other side of his face is underlit, and he suddenly looks much older than her—jaded, worn. His eye gleams dangerously, set off by the warmth of the yellow light. It reminds her how little she knows about him—how the little she knows tells her he’s capable of murder and willing to do it again. 

She decides to get on with it. “Such as DNA sampling. Tracking people’s whereabouts and habits to locate other metas.” 

“A complete loss of autonomy.” 

Clarke nods. “They’re targeting young people. Lower class. ‘_At risk’ _ is the phrase she used, but varied enough that they get a good sample size.” 

Nero tenses. “Like a fucking experiment.” 

All Clarke can do is nod and pray this doesn’t set him off. 

“Does anyone else know?” His voice is low, sharp, a weapon. 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

Nero springs upright, moving for the door, and Clarke glimpses his intentions to jump the railing and reveal himself to the partygoers. 

“She’s not down there,” Clarke rushes just before his hand closes around the doorknob. 

Nero freezes. A cold undercurrent cuts through his voice. “Then where is she? You can find her, can’t you?” He turns back to Clarke, who struggles to her feet. “You want to be able to come back to these? Tell me where she is, and I’ll make sure no one knows I was here. Don’t and I’ll find out where she went from the people down there.” 

As he speaks, Clarke can picture Nero leaping over the railing, landing with a force so great that it cracks the marble floor beneath him. Some scream and turn tail in the name of self preservation, but Clarke can name at least one person too stubbornly good to save himself in that scenario.

She sees Wells standing up to Nero, his chin high and shoulders square as he refuses to give the woman up. Her chest closes up with the sheer likelihood that his ferocious kind-heartedness would put him in danger. Wells didn’t sign up for her kind of hero work; he doesn’t wear a mask. He would stand and die as himself, and his agenda would die with him. 

Clarke is a selfish person. 

“Her car is pulling up front right now,” she admits. 

Nero smiles harshly before thanking her and leaping out of her childhood window. 

* * *

Self-loathing is a remarkably efficient motivator. 

The streets have never been cleaner on Clarke’s side of town. She patrols until both enhanced and normal crime rates halve. It means losing sleep and cancelling on Wells more than once, but she can’t sit still. She _ has _ to patrol, has to protect the people around her. If she stops moving, she starts thinking about Nero. 

It didn’t take long for the news of the woman from the gala’s death to shock Arkadia, which hasn’t dealt with a high-profile meta murder in nearly a year. Protest numbers dwindle, pro-registration propaganda increases. People die every day, but it’s not every day that a woman is found dead with fists dented into the side of their car. 

Wells all but disappears to do damage control. He’s constantly campaigning, canvassing, hoping for a hail-Mary in ways of meta news, as he so blatantly puts it to Clarke. 

“If there was ever a time for The Psyren to go public, I need it to be now.” 

Clarke stops dead in her tracks, disrupting the flow of the sidewalk around her. A few people shove past her, but she’s too shocked by Wells’ words to get sidetracked. “Hello to you too,” she manages, praying her voice comes across nonchalant. 

Wells sighs into the phone, and Clarke can picture him pacing around his downtown apartment. He’s only a few blocks away from her at the moment, close enough that she can feel his distress. She keeps walking in the opposite direction, toward the part of town she patrols most regularly. 

“Think about it,” he begins excitedly. “She’s never killed anyone. She patrols, turns in non-powered criminals. And who can blame her for not turning in metas? She’s obviously against the registry—”

_ Never killed anyone _rings in Clarke’s ears as Wells rambles on. The sheer hope and adoration in his voice almost convinces her to tell him, if only to prove him wrong. 

_ Two people_, she longs to scream. _ I’ve killed two people. _

The second seems so much worse than the first. At least when Kaplan died, Clarke knew for a fact that she was protecting someone. Her choice was clear, if unfavorable, because it was a simple moral dilemma. One life versus two; an innocent girl versus a man who made his own choices.

The gala was a different thing altogether. Clarke let Nero kill that woman because of the _ chance _ that he could hurt Wells out of the hundred people downstairs. It might’ve been a noble choice if she’d been weighing the sheer number of lives at risk; she was thinking of exactly one that meant the most to her. 

Every now and then, Clarke is overcome with the sudden urge to pour her heart out to Wells, to confess her identity and finally let him see all of her. Two weeks ago, this phone call might have convinced her to. Now it’s just another reminder of why she never can. 

God forbid anyone finds out her identity. Wells would be the first person to die, she’s sure of it. Not for the first time, Clarke is simultaneously glad and guilty that he’s all she’s got. At least she’s only putting one person at risk, even if that one person is her entire world. 

“—force for _ good, _ don’t you think?” 

Wells’ voice washes over Clarke again, derailing her train of thought. 

“Yeah,” she agrees noncommittally. 

“Cool, I’m going to make a few calls. See you Thursday?”

“See you then.” 

Once Wells hangs up, Clarke hikes her bag up her shoulder and continues on her path, taking several random turns to throw any cameras off her trail. Not that Clarke thinks she’s being followed; she’s just more cautionary than paranoid about her identity. 

After weaving a web around the city, Clarke stops to change in an old warehouse. In no time, her bag is safe on top of a building, where she sits listening for trouble. 

A breeze catches Clarke in the face, swirling wisps of her hair around. Today’s braids weren’t as effective as usual given her rush to get moving, and she pays for her carelessness now. Pulling the lower face guard she uses on cold days from her bag and tucking her hair into it does the trick, however.

Today doesn’t give Clarke much time to sit still, thankfully. The second her hair is in place, someone screams a few blocks West. It sounds like a teenage boy, and when Clarke locates him, panic courses through his (and by extension, her) entire body. 

She stands, surveying the ground below to gather some idea of where he’s running before she jumps. 

Clarke’s stomach protests the free fall, but her heart soars in her chest. A thrill shoots through her as she steadies herself a few floors off the ground and sets off in pursuit. 

It only takes a few moments to find him. He’s running from an older kid who’s college age and gains on him with each step. They take a turn into an alleyway out of the public eye, with the older boy gaining with every step. Clarke doesn’t have time to evaluate the situation past that. 

Just before she can land between the two boys, a flash of red and black beats her to it. 

Nero jumps off the ledge of a building to intercept the older boy, who skids to a stop at the sudden arrival of the domineering man. 

A shot of terror shoots through Clarke. She goes to the top of the nearest building, ready to stop Nero at a moment’s notice. Maybe she can understand killing people involved in the registry, but _ kids? _

Nero turns to the boy who was being chased. “You okay?” 

The boy nods hastily, his mess of black hair moving as his head bobs. 

“Then get home,” Nero says, gesturing to where the alley opens to the busy street. “I’ll handle this, don’t worry.” 

His words should worry Clarke, but his tone is too light to draw concern. Nero watches the first boy scuttle away with a hint of a smile on his face. 

The corners of his mouth plummet at the sight of the older teen in front of him. 

“Miller, what did I say about robbing people?” he demands. 

The college kid—Miller—rolls his eyes and kicks at a patch of ice on the ground. “Not to do it,” he grumbles. 

“Yeah, because if the wrong person catches you, you aren’t going home.” Stress seeps into Nero’s voice as he steps closer to Miller. “Is that what you want? To disappear without a trace? I can think of exactly one person in this city who could find you, and you don’t want to meet her.” 

“The Psyren?” Miller smiles, unflinching in the severity of Nero’s words. “I like her.”

“That makes one of us,” Nero mutters. Clarke rolls her eyes. “Look, they’re taking people like us off the streets. You can’t keep pulling shit like this.” 

That peaks Miller’s interest. “You know something?” 

Nero fixes his jaw and puts a hand on Miller’s shoulder. “If anyone comes to your door offering medicine, food, _ anything _ you have to sign a paper for, _ do not take it. _Instead, you let me know. You remember what to do?” 

“Candle on the windowsill.” 

“Candle on the windowsill,” Nero repeats. “I know this is tough, but it’s not safe right now. Don’t be a dumbass. Whatever’s in that kid’s wallet isn’t worth it.”

Miller ducks his head and adjusts the beanie on it. “Don’t be a dumbass,” he grumbles as he walks away, “says the man fighting crime in a suit.” 

Clarke watches him leave and waits for Nero to follow before she makes her getaway. She has no clue what to make of what just happened, and it’s too hard to sift through it with Nero lingering in the alleyway. 

“You can come down now,” Nero calls into the empty winter air. 

Clarke looks around the alley for anyone else he could be talking to. 

“C’mon, Psyren. I saw you rush over here.” 

Hesitantly, Clarke leaps from the building, landing softly a few feet in front of Nero. “You saw me?” she asks. 

“Why do you think I raced to beat you here?” he laughs, and the sound throws Clarke off. Nero doesn’t _ laugh_. 

Clarke examines him carefully. “I don’t understand.” 

“Of course not.” He lets out a sound resembling a chuckle, and Clarke grows defensive.

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

Nero crosses his arms, raising his chin like a challenge. “It means I protect my own. The media can paint me however they want, but my neighborhood stays safe.” There’s a silent question in his words: _ who do you protect? _

“I protect everyone I can,” she responds, mirroring his body language. 

“I don’t buy it.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Disbelief spreads over Nero’s face along with curiosity. “Everyone has someone they protect more carefully, someone they’d choose over anyone else. Anyone who says they don’t is lying.” 

“Are you trying to get me to give up my identity?” Clarke asks.

Nero scoffs. “No. I don’t care about your name. I’m just trying to figure you out.” 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” 

“I don’t need your name to know who you are, Psyren.” 

“Why do you care?” 

He leans back against the brick wall, his eyes critical. “You’ve spent the past two weeks cleaning up the whole goddamn city, the way you do every time someone dies on your watch.” 

“You’ve been paying attention.” 

“No, you’re always on my goddamn TV screen. I couldn’t avoid you if I tried. But I do like to keep tabs on the metas in town.” 

Clarke stays silent, still reeling from the fact that a complete stranger noticed these things about her. Apparently she’s not as subtle as she hoped. Who else picks up this stuff? 

Nero takes her silence as a sign to continue, though he does so with hesitance this time. 

“Did you think I was going to kill Miller?” His voice is more tentative than Clarke has heard it. There’s still an undercurrent of anger in his words—there _ always is _with him—but there’s genuine concern hidden in his intent for saying them.

Clarke drops her gaze to the pavement. “I was ready to stop you if I needed to.” 

Nero’s jaw ticks as he nods. 

This time it’s Clarke’s turn for tentativeness. “You don’t have to kill, you know.” 

“Wow, thanks. Never thought of that until now.” 

Irritation rises in her chest. “I’m serious. You don’t have to kill someone to stop them.” 

“Get the fuck out of here with that holier than thou shit. You just haven’t gone up against someone too strong to stop without killing them.” Nero’s shoulders tense. 

“I don’t think anyone is that strong.” 

“Then you’re naïve. Sometimes the only way to stop someone is to put them in the ground.” 

“I disagree.” 

Nero jerks away from the wall and rushes into her space. “What would you do if I attacked right now? You’ve seen me kill how many times now?” The cold air makes his words billow in the inches between them.

Clarke doesn’t back down, just lifts her chin and stares back. She refuses to let his strength intimidate her; she proved herself a worthy match countless times over, and she did it again at the gala. “I’d probably throw you up on the wall and search your head until I found something that works.” 

“And when you didn’t?” 

“I would.” 

“You’d risk your life on that? On intuition?” 

Clarke taps her temple. “My intuition is better than most.”

Nero pales. “Are you…”

She laughs, thrilled by his paranoia, knowing it means she’s gotten under his skin. “I don’t have to go into your head to know you wouldn’t kill me. Maybe to understand _ why_, but I know you won’t.” 

“That’s a dangerous assumption," Nero growls.

Clarke shrugs. “I don’t have a problem with danger.” 

“You just haven’t met someone dangerous enough.” 

“And you are?” 

“If you cross me, yeah. Yeah I am.” 

“We’ll see.” 

* * *

Years of fighting in the same suit have forced Clarke to become a somewhat talented seamstress, but this?

This will take some work. 

Flames devastate the right arm of her suit. And the skin underneath, but that will heal. How the hell is Clarke supposed to fix _ this? _

Of course, none of that matters if she can’t stop this meta. Clarke has gone up against a water elemental, but that wasn’t her hardest fight. Water is matter; it’s something Clarke can control. 

Fire is _ angry_, chaotic, uncontrollable. Fire is energy and heat and destruction running rampant on the snowy streets of downtown Arkadia. 

This meta is strong, stronger than most Clarke has dealt with. His eyes blaze with a murderous stare fixed on the crowd behind Clarke. Hopefully they’re running for their lives. 

In the meantime, Clarke plants herself between the meta and his target, ready for another impossible fight. 

His advances are volatile, unpredictable, as wild as the fire with which he fights. He takes down streetlights, abandoned cars, and Clarke’s projectiles without discrimination, like chaos personified. Clarke knows he’ll kill her if she slips up. 

So she won’t slip up. 

The burn on her arm sears with pain as she ducks behind a car. It’s all she can do to predict and evade his moves while trying to pry deeper into his mind. There has to be a way to stop him, if only she can reach it without getting burned to a crisp. 

His last name is Emerson. That’s all Clarke can gather without diving into the unimaginable pain below the surface of his mind. His brain doesn’t want visitors, and it’s effective at keeping Clarke out. Breaking in would take everything she has. 

She tries to restrain him the way she’d restrained Nero at the gala, but that doesn’t do much against someone with psychokinetic powers. It wouldn’t stop Clarke’s telekinesis; assuming it could hold against Emerson’s pyrokinesis was stupid. 

The car Clarke hides behind sizzles, signaling that it’s past time for her to move. Panic and fear begin to catch up with Clarke, who is running out of ideas. Her only choice is to get inside Emerson’s head, and she’s sure she’ll die the moment she devotes the attention it demands of her. 

She throws a streetlight at him, but he melts it down before it hits him, meaning that Clarke has given him more deadly ammo. She tries to focus on throwing things he can’t melt and control, but everything is a projectile when the fight is life or death. If Clarke stops moving, she’s done for. 

Time loses its meaning when you’re up against an opponent this ferocious. When each second means life and death, they tend to slow down. Moments drag out like years as Clarke dodges fireballs, weaves between cars, and distracts Emerson; yet somehow they fly by in the wake of adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream.

At a certain point, defeat sets in. It’s not an epiphany or sudden realization, just the quiet thought that perhaps the best thing Clarke can do is take Emerson out with her. Nothing she does slows his steady advance. 

But then she thinks of his pain, and she can’t give up so easily. 

Clarke stands vulnerable in the middle of the street, knocking Emerson in the head with the rubble of what used to be the sidewalk to get his attention. His eyes narrow in something between confusion and amusement as he summons a massive fireball. 

“I know you’re hurting,” Clarke starts, praying that he hears her over the screaming civilians and burning buildings. He doesn’t, if the fireball careening her way is any indication. That, or he doesn’t care. 

Clarke leaps out of the way and sends a car flying at Emerson. As usual, he melts it to control it, but it distracts him enough to give Clarke time. 

She misjudges how much time. 

Huddled behind a fallen SUV, Clarke retreats within herself and latches onto Emerson’s consciousness, pushing against the wall of his mind as hard as she can. Just as she breaks through, she’s pulled out by someone’s hands on her. 

They’re gloved and strong—too strong, she realizes. _ Nero. _

He hauls her out from behind the SUV before she comes back to herself entirely. All she can hear is the creak of metal as Nero kicks it in Emerson’s direction. Everything sounds so far away, so distant as her mind is suspended between her own head and Emerson’s.

_ His wife. His children. All dead. He’s looking for someone to blame. _

His pain is debilitating, more than Nero’s was if Clarke hadn’t been familiar with it. It’s all-consuming, _ burning _ just like the fire around them. All she can do is stumble after Nero. She has no choice but to trust him; she’s not herself right now. 

Nero sounds far away as he pulls her to a stop in a remote alleyway. He lowers her to the ground as slowly as the situation allows, which isn’t slow at all. He moves to take off without a word, but Clarke calls out, stopping him in his tracks.

“He’s hurting. I can break him, I just need time.” 

Nero’s face comes into focus enough for Clarke to make out the way he frowns at her in her half-lucid state. “You do what you have to do. I’ll do what I have to do.” 

Something explodes from the street, and Emerson comes into view. 

“Go,” Clarke manages. “I need some time.” 

Nero nods before throwing himself back into the fray. Clarke watches as he sprints into Emerson’s guard, unhesitant in the wake of destruction Emerson leaves in his path. At close range, Emerson has less time to react, and therefore less firepower. What he summons is small and easy enough to dodge. 

It’s strange to watch Nero fight someone other than Clarke. If she had any more time, Clarke might watch, study him for next time they’re at odds. Yet, as she closes her eyes and goes back on the offensive with Emerson’s head, she’s not sure how much she feels at odds with him right now. All grudges and hatred are forgotten in the situation's urgency. 

_ That can change _ is her last thought before going under. 

Emerson’s mind is an angry labyrinth of trauma—a maze of ash and smoke that Clarke chokes on in her attempts to navigate. She heads in the direction of the plume of smoke still smoldering and prays that it leads to something substantial. There’s never been a more important time to trust her intuition. 

She reaches it and is flooded with memories of two children, their faces smiling and hopeful as they gaze up at their father. The boy, Aaron, beams at the fire dancing in his father’s hand and tells him in awe that he could be a hero. 

The image shifts, warps into an ugly scene. Emerson’s wife and children lay lifeless and burnt by a fire the rage tells Clarke he didn’t start. 

_ This _is the key to stopping him. Clarke is sure of it. 

She starts to retreat into her own mind just as the world comes crashing down. 

Emerson’s mind goes dark before Clarke pulls out of it fully. Clarke gasps, her chest suddenly ten times smaller around her ribs. Something sharp pierces her lungs, going deeper every time she inhales. Unadulterated fear courses through her veins alongside desperation and pain. 

One second it’s chaos, the next, nothing. 

All Clarke can do is reach for the part of her mind still inside Emerson and wrench it back into her own head. She can’t focus on Emerson, or Nero, or the screams erupting from the civilians. The buzz of descending reporters screaming questions registers somewhere in the back of Clarke’s mind. Everything is so fuzzy. 

Nero bounds into the alleyway with blood on his right hand. He runs to kneel in front of her. 

“We gotta get out of here,” he rushes, searching her eyes frantically. “Can you hear me? We gotta go. _ Now. _” 

“I hear you,” Clarke says too late. 

It’s not enough for Nero, who hefts her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing. To him, she probably does. 

It’s hard to make out the scene behind them with the sway of Nero’s unnaturally fast run, but Clarke hears sirens and barked orders. _ Police, _ she thinks. _ Makes sense for Nero to run. _

_ But why take her? _

The world fades in and out of focus, and Clarke’s chest hurts with every superpowered step. She tells herself that it’s not her pain, that she’s fine, but it doesn’t resonate in her brain. Sure, she felt Emerson die, but she felt _ herself _die too. And she would have had Nero struck a moment sooner. 

Bitterness rises in her throat like bile. Just as the nonviolent solution falls into her hands, Nero rips it away. He’s always going to. 

Nero stops in another alley several blocks away, if Clarke’s constant awareness of her distance from Wells means anything. It’s not safe enough. 

Clarke picks them both up, keeping them close to the brick side of the building as they ascend to the top. Wind howls in Clarke’s ears the higher they go, and it might upset her stomach if she hadn’t done this countless times. Judging by the way Nero curses under his breath, he’s not so lucky. 

“What the fuck?” he growls as they roll onto the concrete in a less than graceful landing. 

“Wasn’t safe there,” Clarke wheezes, still recovering from her bout with Emerson. 

“Wasn’t exactly safe to fly us up fifteen stories while half conscious either.”

“And whose fault is that?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Clarke hauls herself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall to glare at Nero. “I had him. I was in his head, I found what I needed to find, and you _ killed him_. I said I needed time.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he deflects. 

“You killed him while part of me was still in his head. If I wasn’t pulling away already, I’d be dead.” 

“Good thing you were pulling away.” 

His tone ignites a spark of rage within Clarke. “I can’t believe you. I had him where I wanted him.” 

Nero laughs at her words, a harsh sound that bounces off the concrete rooftop. “So letting him burn two city blocks was just part of the plan? You weren’t going to stop him, and if you did, he would’ve been shot the second he stood down.” 

“What?” Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“Alpha was there, and they didn’t send a kill squad. They had stunners, gases—it was an extraction team. They were going to collect him _ and us _ if we didn’t get out of there.” 

“So you killed him?” 

“So they wouldn’t get a hold of him? Absolutely. I’d rather die on the streets than under their knife.” 

“And that gives you the right to make the decision for someone else?!” Clarke hauls herself to her feet, swaying slightly before fixing Nero with a murderous stare. “That means you can cave his goddamn chest in, let him suffer while you wind up for the kill shot? Leave me gasping for fucking air? It’s not like he could fucking do anything, he was laying there, he wasn’t going to—” 

“Slow down.” 

“Don’t you fucking tell me to _slow down_—” 

“‘Leave _ me _ gasping’?” Nero shoots her a questioning look. 

“I told you I was still in his head,” Clarke snarls. 

“Forgive me for not knowing exactly how your powers work.” 

Clarke pushes down the lump forming in her throat and fixes him with a withering glare. “I felt it. I felt him dying. My ribs shattered just like his, and then his mind went dark.”

Nero has the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “Is this the first time that’s happened?” 

Clarke crosses her arms. “I’ve been in someone’s head in the seconds before, but never…” She looks at the ground and swallows thickly. “Yeah, this is the first time.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“What?” 

He gestures vaguely toward her. “I should’ve been more careful.” 

“Still killed him,” she shoots back.

“Let me apologize.” 

“Are you sorry for killing him?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I was?” 

“Not really.” 

“I am.” He looks out at the skyline behind Clarke, his eyes growing darker. “I’m not sorry for killing the people who put me on this path, but everyone after… I’m not proud of it.” 

“Then why do it?” Clarke asks incredulously. 

“Because sometimes it’s the only option.” 

Clarke scoffs.

“I’m serious.” Nero squares his stance, his hands settling on his hips. “Fine. How were you going to stop him?” 

“I had a memory of his son. Emerson was holding a flame in his hands, and his son was looking at him like…” she takes a deep breath, “like all kids deserve to be able to look at their fathers, and he tells him he could be a hero. It would’ve been enough. You’d know if you felt it.”

“Listen, that’s wonderful and all, but what if it didn’t do what you thought it would?” 

“It would.” 

It’s hard to tell, but Clarke thinks he raises an eyebrow under his mask. “Really? Because if you went in my head and plucked out a random happy memory of _ my _dead family, I’d go on a goddamn rampage.” 

“Now you’re just projecting.”

“Am I? How’d his kid die?” Nero sees Clarke’s questioning look and gestures for her to speak. “No caring father leaves his kid at home so he can go burn the city down. How’d his kid die?” 

“_Kids_,” Clarke corrects, but her voice grows quiet. “And they died in a fire. I didn’t see who caused it, but I don’t think it was him.”

“And you want to remind him of that while he melts down a car and throws it at your head?” 

Clarke doesn’t answer. 

“Look, Psyren, I think you’re a good person. And you’re good at what you do—protecting everyone. But you have to let me do what I need to do to protect who I need to protect. Sometimes that means killing. You don’t need to agree, but don’t get in my way.” His voice quiets at the end like a question, like he’s _ asking _ her to let him go instead of demanding.

Her response is a stiff nod. Saying the words aloud might kill her. 

“There’s something else I need to talk to you about.” 

“By all means,” she almost laughs, because nothing good can come out of his mouth now. 

He starts slowly, gaining speed as he talks. “There’s this meta in my area—new powers, no control, gonna get someone killed. She’s a telepath too. I know this is a shit time to ask, but I wanted to know if you’d help. I can’t get close without her in my head, and—” 

“She killed someone, didn’t she?” Clarke breathes, unable to help her interest. 

“How did you know that?” 

“It’s what happens when telepathy becomes uncontrollable.” Clarke rushes to explain. “Your mind doesn’t stay in your own head, it wants to latch onto other consciousnesses. But brains can’t handle that load for long if you go too deep. New telepaths don’t know their limits. The only way to find out is to go too far.” 

“Did you? Go too far?” 

“I got lucky,” she sighs, determined to leave the subject where it is until she sees the way Nero eyes her. “Mentor,” she adds quietly. It feels wrong to leave it at that, but there are only so many telepaths out there. Jake Griffin might’ve defined himself as a father, but Clarke doing the same now would be a dead giveaway.

“They’re dead,” he says more than asks.

Clarke nods and turns to the city below. “Well, if that’s all you needed, I’ll—” 

“Wait,” Nero says just as Clarke’s boot lands on the edge of the building.

She turns back to him, eager to leave with the sudden change of subject.

“If we’re gonna do this, we should meet up. There’s an old warehouse on 73rd, good for vigilante shit. No one’s gone near it in years.” 

“I’ll teach you how to close your mind,” Clarke starts, watching as his eyes widen in surprise. “That way I don’t need to stick around.” 

“You’d teach me how to shut you out?” he asks.

“Please,” she mocks. “You’d never get good enough to shut me out. But a new meta with no control? I can get you past her.” 

“I was just going to suggest going on a patrol or two. You do know this takes longer, right?” 

Of course Clarke knows that. But if she goes on patrols, starts treating Nero—who is a _ killer_, she has to remind herself—like a partner, Clarke isn’t sure where that’ll end. This way is easier in the long run. Patrols mean petty theft, non-meta crimes, and long bouts of time spent doing absolutely nothing. Training has a purpose with a clear ending in sight. 

It’s better this way, she tells herself. 

Clarke does what she does best: deflect. “My schedule is pretty flexible. You?” 

Nero looks at her warily. “Mornings are taken. The rest is pretty free.” 

“Old warehouse on 73rd. Tomorrow night?” 

“Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So you feel entitled to a sense of control**  
**And make decisions that you think are your own**  
**You are a stranger here, why have you come?**  

> 
> And the development from enemies to friends begins!! Still firmly on the enemies side of the spectrum, but we're getting there. Song for this chapter was the one that inspired the title of this fic: Who Are You, Really? // Mikky Ekko. 


	3. similar acts and a different name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wasn't a fighter 'til somebody told me**  
**I had better learn to lean into the punch**  
**So it don't hurt as bad when they leave**  
**There you were, turning your cheek**  


Wind whooshes past Clarke’s face as Nero’s fist cuts through the air in front of it. She lurches back, ducking underneath the arm that follows his missed punch, and backing out of range of his hands. 

They circle each other, footsteps echoing in the empty warehouse. The reprieve is short-lived—too short, if you ask Clarke’s heaving lungs. 

“C’mon, Psyren. Use your head,” Nero pants before lunging at her. 

She raises her arm to block his initial hit and follows with a chop to his elbow, forcing his arm down and away. _ Use your head. _ That’s all Clarke ever does. 

Anger is good; she can use anger. She streamlines past his guard and delivers a blow to his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs despite his protective armor. 

Clarke lands two more jabs to his body. Softening him up is the goal. He’s stronger, but also bigger, slower. As long as Clarke fights smart, she can keep up. 

She dodges and weaves in and out of Nero’s guard, making up for her size with speed. He can’t hit her if she stays out of reach. She makes him work for it, makes him sweat. 

But at some point he anticipates her move and dodges, gaining the element of surprise as he sweeps her feet out from under her, taking the fight to the ground.

Clarke hopelessly tries to scramble to her feet, knowing she’s no match for him on the ground, but he twists his firm grip on her ankle, pulling her into a vulnerable position underneath him.

They end with his knee planted on her chest, pinning her to the floor with his fist hanging dangerously above her head. 

Seconds pass as they stare at each other. His eyes blaze with victory while Clarke fights the urge to smack the look off his face. 

His knee digs harder into her chest, forcing more oxygen out of her lungs. 

“Okay,” Clarke coughs. “You win, asshole.” 

Nero lifts his knee and offers her a hand. “You can’t call me an asshole just because I keep winning.” 

“Oh, I’m not,” Clarke bites as she ignores his hand and struggles to her feet on her own. A persistent ache in her shoulders begs for attention and rest, but she ignores it. “I call you an asshole because you _ are _one, not because you win. I’ll call you one when you lose too, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about losing,” Nero chuckles, fixing the tape on his hands. “You done yet?” 

“Nope. Still pissed.” 

“Well go be pissed somewhere else for a few minutes. I need some water.” 

“Tired?” 

“Of you trying to beat me up—and failing, might I add—because I said you can’t think that hard and fight at the same time? Yeah.” 

“You do realize—” she pants “—that I’m fighting powerless because you don’t want me in your head, right?”

“And telekinesis?” 

“Too strong,” she smirks. “You’d be on the ground in seconds. Feels too much like cheating.” 

“Or you’re defensive because I’m right. You just can’t think and fight at the same time,” Nero taunts. “What use is telekinesis if you can’t use it in a fight? Ducking for cover to sit there with your eyes closed while your opponent just waits doesn’t seem like an efficient strategy.”

Clarke’s mouth hangs open uselessly as she searches for a response, but then she hears the challenge in his voice. Her spine straightens, and she lowers herself into a fighting stance. 

Nero rolls his shoulders and adjusts the wraps on his hands, which he wears instead of his gloves that are essentially brass knuckles. “Alright, if you insist.” His voice rumbles low in his chest. 

He’s the first to lunge forward, but Clarke dodges and lets him fly past her. He spins to block her hit and land one of his own. Only when he raises his fist, it locks into place in front of him. There’s an electric moment where his fist shakes in her hold and his eyes meet hers, all fire and fury and… pride? 

Clarke loses focus and Nero breaks free, springing into her guard and landing two punches to her gut before she darts away. He follows, pushing her out of the center of the room, limiting her options to run by cornering her. 

Clarke is so focused on anticipating his moves that she almost forgets she can stop them. All of her instincts scream to get away so she has space to think, but Nero stay close, not giving her the option. 

She’s able to stop his blows when they come near her, but that’s gut instinct. That only proves Nero right. 

He persists forward into her space, blow after blow blocked only inches from making contact with Clarke. She realizes that he’s been holding back on his powers too—it was foolish of her to assume he was giving it his all when one punch could take her out. Clarke doesn’t have that type of power.

Clarke’s powers lend themselves to more than fighting. She can fight with them, but it isn’t the same. Nero is a weapon, and a finely tuned one if the ferocity with which he comes at her is any indication. He’s destruction personified if he so chooses. 

She lands a few punches, but nothing substantial. She doesn’t have the time to gather herself to throw Nero across the room or stop him in his tracks. His strength makes him harder to pin, and they’ve been sparring for nearly half an hour. Clarke is exhausted. 

He backs her into the corner, landing a blow to her chest that forces the air out of her and disorients her. That distraction gives him a window to pin her against the wall. His forearm presses her into the exposed brick, the uneven surface digging into her spine. 

Their faces are inches apart as they pant, Clarke summoning her strength to throw him across the room as his free hand comes up, his fingers closing around her throat—not choking her, but letting her know he can.

But before she can yield, the world goes out of focus. 

Pain, overwhelming pain washes over Clarke, dousing her like cold water. She feels it in her bones, the anguish and what it demands of her. 

The burden is heavier than last time she felt it; over six years of trauma packed into the space it should take up linearly. There isn’t enough room in her head for all of it. It’s too much for her to make sense of beyond comprehending its enormity. 

Still, she gets glimpses. Departing words, hands held and gone limp, bodies crumpling under clenched fists, words spat in fury. They flash by in glimpses of Nero’s reality, too sudden for Clarke to grab hold. She’s not sure she wants to, anyway. It’s like she’s drowning under the waves of sorrow washing over her until she no longer knows which way is up.

“Get the fuck out of my head,” reverberates through Clarke. She follows Nero’s voice to the surface, gasping when she’s free like she’s coming up for air. 

“What?” he snarls at her, his hand clenched in her suit rather than around her throat. “You couldn’t win, so you bring up—” he cuts off, and that’s when Clarke notices that his hand is shaking. “Stay out of my head.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Clarke defends, pushing his hand away from her. It’s only when he retreats into his own space that Clarke realizes there are tears running down her face. She swipes at them with a gloved hand, wanting nothing more than to storm out of the warehouse and never have to interact with Nero again. 

But they still haven’t found the telepath girl. It’s been two weeks of training, and Nero hasn’t caught wind of her. He’s almost ready to shut her out, and then Clarke will be free to leave as she intended. 

In the meantime, she decided she wanted to spar. 

Looking at Nero’s unraveling demeanor, Clarke understands her obligation to explain. He may not care about her intentions, but she does. If they have to interact past today, which all signs say is the scenario, then she needs him to understand that was an accident. 

She leaves the distance he put between them in place. 

“Skin to skin contact… it’s different for me. It’s like a one way line into someone’s brain. I can’t control it most of the time.” Clarke searches his face before he turns away from her in disbelief. “Do you think I like feeling people’s pain? That I get a thrill out of invading people’s privacy? If I could help it, I wouldn’t do it. Any of it.” 

“Yes you would,” he spits. “You love this meta shit, don’t lie.” 

“If I wasn’t a meta, I could bump into someone on the street without fucking crying! I could hold my best friend’s hand! I could go _ home _ —” Her words hang in the air between them, bouncing off the walls of the warehouse just to mock her. “I didn’t mean to go into your head, and I wouldn’t go _ there _ if I had,” she adds quietly. 

If it weren’t for Nero swiping hastily at his eyes, Clarke wouldn’t know how he feels. It’s in these moments she envies the rigidity of his costume; Clarke’s mask molds to her face, leaving her more readable than his armored helmet leaves him. She’s gotten good at guessing what he’s thinking—not because she _has_ to, but it’s the principle of the thing—by watching the lower half of his face and reading his body language. 

He’s unreadable as he looks at the ground, searching for words Clarke is scared will burn. 

“So you can’t touch anyone?” he asks.

Surprise shoots through Clarke, both at his hesitancy and choice of question. “Not exactly. It’s a lot to explain.”

“You just felt and made me relive all of my trauma at once,” he counters. “I think you owe me an explanation as to how that happens.” 

Clarke nods. “That’s fair.” She takes a few steps forward. “Telekinesis is easy. I tell something to move, and it does. It works like normal strength, but I’m lifting with my brain instead of my body. That’s what seemed like the more important power when I started out, so I focused on it. Hard. I didn’t really do anything with my telepathy except try to repress it. Took a few psych and neuroscience classes only to find that repression only makes the problem worse.” Clarke clears her throat. “I knew how to control it theoretically. It’s easy. You just close your mind. But closing your mind isn’t easy, you know that.” 

Nero nods, listening intently. 

“It’s still something I’m working on. I try to keep my mind open in case of emergencies, but it leaves me vulnerable to surprise touches. I don’t know why touch is so much more visceral, but it just pulls me into someone’s head, so I try to avoid it. If I know a touch is coming, it’s a bit easier. I can shake someone’s hand and be fine, but reaching for a coffee at the same time as someone else does me in,” she grimaces, thinking of Wells. 

Nero clears his throat. “So you don’t…” 

“I don’t, what?” 

“Touch people.” 

“Oh. Um, not really. It’s easy enough to avoid with the whole secret identity thing, I guess. People never get close enough to where it becomes an issue.” Clarke looks up from her boots. “I can turn it off if the situation calls for it, but I can never really, uh, let go entirely.” 

“What would happen if you did? Let go entirely, that is.” 

“No clue. I never have. I assume I’d just… get everything.” 

Nero lifts his chin. “What did you get from me?” 

Clarke doesn’t know how to answer. _ So much sadness _ , she almost says. _ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you have to carry that. _

But Nero doesn’t want her sympathy, if the guarded look in his eyes in any sign. 

Luckily, she doesn’t have to answer. 

Outside of the warehouse, three gunshots echo down the street, followed by a beat of silence. Clarke and Nero freeze, locking eyes as they realize what’s happening. Someone screams—a woman. Two more gunshots. More screaming. 

“Who are they?” Nero asks, his voice low. 

“On it.” Clarke closes her eyes and focuses on the surrounding streets, following the panic. 

“Man and a woman,” she tells Nero as soon as she senses them. “Both survivors. She’s a healer and he’s invulnerable. Can’t break his skin or bones. He’s shielding her from the bullets, but—” Clarke doubles over in pain as it rips through her side. She hears Nero take a hesitant step closer and pulls herself upright. “She’s shot, but healing. They’re… scared. Really scared. We gotta go.”

“How many are there?” 

Clarke opens her eyes and turns to him solemnly. “If we stay for me to count them, these people are going to die.” 

“But they can’t.” 

“They’re afraid they might.”

Nero seems to struggle with that. “Okay, lets go.”

Together they race out of the warehouse, Nero faster than Clarke, but he stays close. The shooting has moved to just around the corner. 

His arm flies out to stop Clarke before she can follow him around it. He speaks hurriedly as he shoves her back, but she’s too overcome with surprise to make out any of it. 

She tries to push past, but he presses her a little harder against the wall. 

Clarke looks at his arm across her body and hisses, “What the fuck?” 

Nero turns to her, panic in his eyes. “Alpha forces. Extraction and kill team at the same time. Both after the metas.” 

“So, what, we let them die? Get taken?” 

“No. But you won’t like what I do.” 

Clarke seethes. “I can stop the guns. You get the metas out, and I’ll be right behind you. No one has to die.” 

“Stay in your own head,” he warns. 

“Would it stop you if I didn’t?” 

“Probably not.”

“Just—” Clarke sighs and pushes his arm away from her “—try my way first. Please. I’ll hold them off, you get them out.” 

“And you? How do you get out?” 

“I’ll figure it out.” They turn in unison to hear someone scream—Clarke thinks it’s the man. She shudders to think what could make an invulnerable person scream that way. She pushes past Nero and sprints into the open. 

For five agonizing seconds, Clarke stands vulnerable, watching as the man desperately presses his hands to multiple bullet wounds in the woman’s torso while attempting to cover her with his body. A few bullets bounce off of him, leaving holes in his clothes without so much as bruising the skin underneath. 

The ricochet of bullets draws her gaze to the Alpha forces on the street, closing in from a block away. As soon as Clarke is in their line of sight, half of the guns aim at her. She hears Nero curse from somewhere on her left and smirks. Always underestimating her. 

Gunfire stops with a single thought from Clarke. A few soldiers—Clarke hates to think of this as war, but that’s what their uniform suggests—stop and try to unjam them without luck. 

Gas containers are thrown in her direction, spewing plumes of poison, unconsciousness, or death into the empty street. Clarke rushes to contain it, keeping her mind split comfortably between the two tasks until someone brings out tranquilizer guns. 

The armored men set their guns on Clarke, Nero, and the two metas. The female meta is nearly unconscious, and the male has impenetrable skin, but if Nero or Clarke goes down, all of them are goners. Clarke can’t do this on her own. 

She risks a glance to where Nero creeps through the street, trying to keep covered in case Clarke’s power gives out. In another scenario, his lack of faith may offend her, but keeping covered is the best option right now. There’s so much to focus on. 

_ Guns. Gas. Tranq guns. _ Clarke’s thoughts reduce to those words on repeat as each bullet longs to tug free of the gun, as gas fights her hold on the canister. There’s not much she can do to slow the approach of the soldiers aside from stand in the street and snarl, making a target of herself instead of the people behind her. 

She hears the woman—_ Emori _, she hears the man cry out—talking to Nero behind her, saying that she’ll heal fine, but can’t risk taking another hit. There’s a cry of pain, and then footsteps—heavy ones. Nero must be taking her to safety. 

A few guns follow their retreating figures, and then it’s Clarke against at least a hundred armed soldiers and their slow, uniform approach.

With Clarke’s back exposed, ten men break apart from the pack to circle around and catch her where she’s vulnerable. She can’t have that. It’s not that she couldn’t hold them off from there, but line of sight is important in these situations. Clarke can’t stop what she doesn’t know is coming. 

Clarke holds her hand out at the soldiers while power flows through her arm, her fingers shaking with the effort of stopping ten people in their tracks while holding off hundreds of guns and other weapons. Inanimate objects are one thing, but complex beings, humans with will and determination, take more to control. 

It occurs to Clarke that Nero might not be coming back. After all, she told him not to. But looking out at the sheer number of people Clarke will have to stop if this escalates any further, figuring it out becomes impossible. 

There aren’t many ways this ends. Clarke isn’t sure what it’d take to escape, and she doesn’t have the mind power to give it much thought. _ Guns. Gas. Tranq guns. Soldiers. _ The words loop in her mind, her determination enough to chase away fear. She will make it out of this. She will not let Alpha forces take her. 

Just then, a rough call comes from behind the front line of riot shields, and the soldiers take a unified step forward. Then another. And another. They continue forward, like they know Clarke is too overwhelmed to stop them all. 

It’s a bold assumption. 

Power rips through Clarke, tearing through her body with a scream as she stills the street in front of her. Nero has to come back. That’s the only way she can get out of this. Clarke will hold off these soldiers, and Nero will get them to safety. No one dies, not even her. 

Killing criminals and leaving someone to die are two different things, or so she hopes. She has to think that; it’s the only thing giving her strength to keep these people at bay. Clarke’s entire body screams from the effort of keeping over one hundred bodies still, one hundred minds muted. She doesn’t dare enter any of them; the rest would escape in moments. 

And she’s still holding out for Nero. 

But eventually, Clarke’s hope wears thin. Her vision fades in and out of focus, duplicating the number of people before her. Her body burns like Emerson’s, all fire and fume. 

Boots plant on the icy concrete in unison. Their approach is slow motion, but Clarke’s grip on them is loosening. Gas leaks from a can to her left, a minuscule cloud of smoke with her name written on it. It’s only a matter of time before someone musters the resistance to pull a trigger. 

As the world gradually winds back into normal speed, Clarke’s thoughts wander dangerously. She isn’t thinking about the guns, gas, or soldiers. Instead, her thoughts drift to Wells, just a few miles north of where Clarke stands dying in the middle of the street. 

Will they unmask her when she dies? Will he be mad that she lied to him all this time? God, what use is being able to read minds if you don’t know the answers to these questions about your own best friend?

Clarke’s spine feels pressure so strong it feels like it may snap in half. The sheer exertion is tearing her apart. She’s never tried to control this many people at once. 

_ The only way to know is to go too far. _

She hopes Nero finds that telepath and helps her. Hell, maybe he’ll be able to dismantle the registry on his own. Underestimation is a two-way street the two of them walk well. 

All hell breaks loose when Clarke blacks out. 

Actually, it breaks loose three seconds before. This world of slow motion that Clarke created is broken by the sound of a gunshot and a curse from somewhere behind her. Neither register fully in her mind as she fights to hold on, and her knees give out underneath her. 

The bullet was aimed at her side, maybe her hip, until she fell. It’ll be a quick death, at least, she thinks as she watches it fly toward her face, a flash of metal like Nero’s knife at the gala. If only things were as simple as they were before that moment. 

Before it can rip through Clarke’s flesh, Nero flies into her periphery, unaffected by her iron grip on the street. He’s screaming something she can’t hear. Her ears ring too loud; the world is too much for her to handle. 

In a flash, he’s in front of her, leaving Clarke on her knees waiting for pain that doesn’t come. 

Nero staggers backwards while the world goes dark. 

* * *

The first thing Clarke notices when she comes to is that she hasn’t moved. Cold seeps into her bones from the icy street and winter air, and the Arkadia skyline is there to greet her when she opens her eyes. 

What’s different is the sound of destruction coming from a block away. 

Clarke bolts from the ground to see Nero wreaking havoc on Alpha forces. He darts between soldiers with the chaos of a true madman, drawing their gunfire just to have it strike their fellow man. Silver glitters on his thigh, meaning he hasn’t even bloodied his knives. 

His punches are weapons of their own. People fall from friendly fire half as often as a swift hit takes them out. Clarke has never seen Nero fight this way, in broad daylight against so many armed opponents. It’s a side of him she’s never seen. 

She doesn’t want to see it again. 

The snow is stained red as men bleed out on the street, soldier falling on top of fellow soldier in Nero’s wake. Clarke is rendered useless. She can’t go into anyone’s head for fear of dying herself, and stopping them is pointless when Nero is just going to kill them regardless. 

Nero is covered in blood, and Clarke can’t make out how much of it is his own. She isn’t sure which is worse: mostly his or mostly soldiers’. 

The crowd of soldiers is cut in half since Clarke went out, but more march up the street from behind her—easily another hundred. They aren’t going to last that long. 

Before Clarke can call out to Nero, one of the remaining soldiers uses Nero’s preoccupation with another man to pull a knife from its holster and plunge it into his side. 

Nero manages to punch the soldiers away before he crumples to the ground. The second he falls, the others get ready to swarm him, but Clarke will be damned if she lets that happen. 

She screams, drawing their eyes to her long enough to muster the strength to freeze them in place once more. It’s easier with the rage pumping through her system, demanding she saves the life of the man who saved her. 

Clarke’s feet hardly hit the ground as she races to him, and it’s unclear whether that’s from adrenaline or her powers. Nero lays gasping in the crowd, blood spattered and blending in with the red of his suit so well that she can’t tell what’s damaged. 

“Get out of here,” he wheezes, his voice terrifyingly weak. “They’re after you. Get out.” 

“Like hell I am.” Clarke is not letting this bastard die when she owes him her life. She silences his incoming protest. “Hold on, this is going to hurt,” she warns. 

She holds his hand in hers and focuses on lifting them, keeping him as steady as she can while getting them out of there. Her focus switches from the soldiers to their guns as they soar out of reach, freeing her mind to assess the surrounding streets for safe places to hide. By the looks of it, he doesn’t have much time. 

Their warehouse is still vacant and unsuspected by the public. Clarke’s emergency med kit remains tucked away in her bag, which sits in the corner of the room they sparred in. It’ll do in a crunch. 

Nero groans as they whiz through alleys, trying to throw Alpha forces off their scent by taking as many turns as possible. Now that he’s not fighting, two obvious wounds glare through holes in the armor covering his abdomen; one bullet wound, one stab wound. Other than that and some minor cuts from combat, he’s unharmed. All Clarke has to do is focus on the big guns. 

She maneuvers the two of them through the door and to the floor. Clarke doubts they’ll be able to come back here when this is done. 

The bag flies to her side from across the room, and Clarke sets to work. 

But before she can reach his wounds, she has to take off his chest plate. She tells him what she’s doing as her hands work at the straps of his armor, but she’s not sure her words register. His eyes drift out of focus, and weak murmurs make it past his lips but fail to reach Clarke’s ears. 

With as much gentleness as Clarke can muster, she eases the chest plate off, wincing when it sticks to the wounds on his abdomen. She wastes no time examining the rest of his chest and focuses on the problem areas. 

Gloves fly out of the bag and to her side, and Clarke replaces her costume gloves with surgical ones. After digging for wipes, she sets about cleaning around his angry flesh, wiping away the blood to get a clear picture of what she’s dealing with. Med school and training under her mother certainly come in handy sometimes. 

The bullet is still lodged inside Nero, and removing it is Clarke’s priority. She gives him a clean towel to bite down on while she focuses on the bullet, dragging it out of his wound with her mind. The damage is minimal, and it didn’t hit anything important. Aside from the bullet wound itself, he got lucky. 

The knife is tricky to remove, but things are easier the moment it’s out. Stopping blood and cleaning wounds is something Clarke is used to; it comes easily while Nero groans in pain. 

Within minutes, Nero is stable, and Clarke has stopped his bleeding. Her gloves are covered in his blood, rendering her inefficient as she attempts to find her stitching supplies. She rips them off and wills her hands to steady as she preps for stitches. 

Nero’s stomach is clean, giving Clarke the canvas she needs to get to work. She crouches over his torso, kneeling beside his limp body as she guides the needle into his skin with her tweezers. She uses a deeper, stabler stitch, knowing he won’t take a moment to rest. He’ll still be able to move as much as his wounds let him, and this stitch is less likely to tear. 

This process is easy—routine, even, if Clarke counts all the times she’s stitched herself up after a fight. Stitching an unmoving Nero is even simpler. 

He’s a good patient, all things considered. Now that they’re out of danger, he’s relaxed considerably, laying back on the floor and letting Clarke do what she needs. She wonders if this is how he’d react if he hadn’t lost so much blood. 

Guilt strikes Clarke’s chest. Nero lost that much blood because he lured the fighters away from Clarke and took them on one hundred to one. If she’d been stronger, if she’d been able to hold on longer, none of those people would’ve had to die, and Nero wouldn’t be laying on the floor of an abandoned warehouse bleeding out. 

She’s torn between gratefulness and anger. Without Nero’s interference, Clarke would be dead. There was no way to get them out of there without a fight once she lost her grip on the soldiers; she acknowledges that. But Nero never considered an ending where nobody died, even when Clarke insisted it was possible. In his mind, people were going to die no matter what. Clarke doesn’t share the same way of thinking. Maybe that’s why he can kill and she can’t. 

If either of them were handling the situation on their own, it would’ve been a success. Clarke could’ve levitated the metas out of there without having to give Nero a job to ensure the safety of the soldiers, and Nero could’ve jumped straight into battle without having to worry about her. They’re better off on their own. 

Nero’s hand jerks by his side just as Clarke secures the last of his bandages. She reaches out to steady him, prepared for the physical contact, until she notices the cold, clammy feeling of his skin. Her hand darts out to his forehead to confirm her findings. His bare chest flutters from rapid breath, and his pulse races similarly when she checks it. 

Clarke recognizes shock when she sees it; she just doesn’t have the tools to stop it. His organs aren’t getting enough oxygen due to the blood loss. 

There’s no way to set up an IV or a blood transfusion in this shitty warehouse. She’s helpless to watch the man who saved her die. 

No. She didn’t save him in the street just to let him die now. He didn’t save her life just to get let down once the fighting was over. 

He might hate her for this, but she can’t let him die. 

Clarke swears under her breath and places her fingers behind Nero’s head where the mask doesn’t cover, sliding her thumbs behind his ears to hold him still. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers just before going under. 

Pain erupts in Clarke’s abdomen, but she doesn’t allow it to overwhelm her. She’s on a mission here, one she’s determined to get right. She will not go too far, but she won’t let Nero die on her either. 

She pushes further to the more primitive, functional parts of the brain. Flashes of his past echo in front of her, but she shoves them aside. 

Clarke can’t stop them from popping up though, and she can’t always look away before seeing too much. Apparitions of a dark haired, kind-eyed woman appear before her, as do visions of a young girl with the same hair. His mother and sister, surely. 

At last, she breaks through the boundary of his mind, giving her access to the rest of his brain. Nero’s brain doesn’t fight her but instead urges her forward. His survival instinct recognizes her as a means of survival; she is a lifeboat, and his brain throws itself at her. She’s dodging memories and trauma left and right in her efforts to make it to the brain stem. 

Still, minds aren’t meant to hold two people for long. Clarke has to move fast if they’re both going to survive this. 

His brain stem is an open door in the wake of his trauma, allowing Clarke’s consciousness to make demands of it. She levels his pulse, blood flow, and oxygenates his organs before pulling away. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” she pants when they come back to themselves. His skin is steaming now—Clarke is sure her own is too—but he’s not in shock. He’s not dying. She backs into her own space, untangling her fingers from the back of his neck. 

Nero tries to sit only to be stopped by Clarke’s hand on his shoulder. He looks at her fingertips on his skin and raises an eyebrow with something she can’t understand.

“You were ready for that one, then?” he asks, shrugging off her touch and groaning as he eases himself to rest against the wall and face her. 

Clarke almost tries to force him back for the sake of his injuries, but given the nature of the day, she doubts he’d listen. Instead she keeps to herself, watching Nero’s masked face morph into anger. 

“What part of ‘stay the fuck out of my head’ don’t you understand?” he growls. 

“You were dying,” Clarke says exasperatedly. “Did you honestly expect me to let you?” 

“I’d rather bleed out than have someone fucking around in there,” he snaps, but the anger doesn’t burn the way it did earlier. 

“I stopped the bleeding on my own. There was nothing else I could do about the shock.” Clarke’s eyes flicker to the stitches. “I told you I’d figure it out. Why’d you come back?” 

Nero looks at the floor. “They were after you. I heard them barking orders before you stopped them all. ‘_ Wound and extract. We want her alive. _’ They didn’t say the same for the other metas and I. No way in hell I was giving those bastards what they want.” His words are clinical, but there’s an undercurrent in his voice—concern for sure. Affection, maybe. 

“They wouldn’t have gotten me if you didn’t take the bullet. I would’ve died,” Clarke says quietly. 

“But you didn’t have to.” 

“Neither did they,” Clarke snaps, tired of the argument she feels brewing. 

“Not this again. If you give me the choice between one meta doing her best to help people and two hundred Alpha soldiers trying to take her, I’ll kill the soldiers every time.” 

Clarke is rendered speechless by the sincerity of his words. 

Nero breaks the silence. “Anyway, I thought it was supposed to be a one-way connection.”

Clarke’s eyes widen as they snap up to look at him. His eyes are open, honest—not cruel and joking as she’d half-hoped they’d be. 

“Are you saying it wasn’t?” she asks, breathless. _ God, what did he see? _

He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth ticks up at her panic. “Not sure a fan of telepathy when it means someone goes in _ your _ head, are you?” 

Clarke doesn’t dignify his taunt with a response. 

Nero bristles. “I’m sure I didn’t get as much as you did, but I got… glimpses. Racing thoughts, mostly. Nothing deep. But I think you should go. I’ll get the telepath.” 

“You can barely sit up straight and you expect me to let you limp home?" Clarke scoffs. "They’re looking for us.” 

“I’m strong, remember? I’ll be fine. Besides, they’re looking for Nero, not… _ me _.” It’s not much, but his tone tells Clarke he’s not budging. When she doesn’t move, he continues. “I’m going to keep killing people, and you’re going to keep trying to save them. That’s not sustainable. You wanted to train me to block the telepath so that you didn’t have to stick around after, right? Well we’re getting into the after now. Don’t stick around.” 

“We don’t know how to fight as a team,” she says to the floor, unsure of why she needs to justify her own thoughts. “And one of us is going to die before we figure it out.” She looks at Nero with sorry eyes. “I belong alone. I always have.” 

Nero meets her eyes and gestures to the door. “Then go fight alone.” 

* * *

Clarke collapses onto Wells’ plush sofa, tucking her legs underneath herself while he turns on the TV. The news flickers to life on the screen, bringing unwelcome video of the scene The Psyren and Nero left behind. 

“_Please_,” she groans and throws a pillow to Wells’ side of the couch. “Not this again. You’re obsessed.” 

Wells blocks her shot and leans forward to watch, paying her protest no attention. “And you’re _ not__?_ The Psyren and Nero teamed up, Clarke, and you don’t care?”

“I do care,” she grumbles. “But I cared more when it aired last week. If they haven’t found anything new by now, they aren’t going to. It’s just becoming fear-mongering at this point.” 

A warning of disturbing imagery vaguely registers in the back of Clarke’s mind before the videos come, the way they always do. The reporter drones on about the destruction and lives lost with a sorrowful tone that feels tired after a week of repetition, and Clarke tunes her out to stare at the screen. 

Bodies litter the street, fifty or sixty in total by the time their fellow soldiers rush in for emergency aid. There are shots of people in hospitals, a heart rate monitor faintly beeping underneath the drone of narration. The Alpha forces chief comments on the absence of Nero sightings since he was wounded, and Clarke gets a twinge in her chest when the woman comments that she hopes Nero’s wounds were fatal. 

“Can we turn it off?” Clarke frowns. “Wells, it’s movie night. If we’re gonna hear about superheroes, can’t the story at least have a happy ending?” 

“Happy endings, huh? Never pegged you for an escapist, Clarke.” 

She kicks him with her sock-clad foot. “Shut up. Pessimistic jokes are supposed to be my thing.” She notices that Wells still hasn’t looked away from the screen. “What’s on your mind?” 

His eyes dart back to her, and his brow furrows. He leans back into the cushions, stretching out his arms as he faces her. “Nero has been making my job harder for years. I’m sad to see The Psyren with him. I really thought she was better than that,” he frowns. “But look—” he gestures to the screen “—she doesn’t hurt anyone. She just… stands there, stopping them all. Then Nero shows up and goes ballistic? It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense.” 

“What doesn’t make sense?” 

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. They teamed up against that elemental, and they teamed up to save these metas. Twice is a coincidence. All these reporters out here giving them team names are spewing bullshit. If it happens again, maybe I’ll believe it, but I think it was just the two of them in the right place at the right time. You said it yourself. He kills. She doesn’t. You think that sounds like two people who would willingly work together?” 

“Then why does he save her both times? Why does she save him the second time?” 

“Huh?”

“He took a bullet for her, Clarke. What kind of person takes a bullet for a stranger only to turn around and kill fifty-six people? Since when does The Psyren save mass murderers? It doesn’t make sense.”

Clarke treads carefully. “I don’t know why he saved her, but The Psyren saves everyone she can. Maybe that’s why.” 

“I don’t know, I feel like saving everyone you can in that scenario means stopping Nero.”

“That’s—” Clarke starts to argue, then deflates. “A fair point. I don’t know. I just… I don’t fault them for trying to save people from the registry. Doesn’t mean they get to kill people, but. I get wanting to stop them.” 

“Then fight the registry with me.” 

“Wells, we’re not doing this again.” 

“Clarke, you could do so much. You have a good grip on this stuff. I shouldn’t be the only one hearing what you have to say. Imagine if you were having this conversation with Marcus Kane! You’d win him over in one night, I swear.” 

“And my mother would be lingering beside him while I did it,” she snaps. “Wells, I tell you these things because you’re my friend, but also so you can tell other people. I have their ear as long as I have yours too. I promise you, your schmoozing is more effective without tons of family trauma looming over everyone’s heads while you try to convince my mom that genocide is, in fact, a bad thing.” 

“You think it’s genocide?” Wells asks quietly. 

Clarke nods. “I do. Registration. People disappearing. Fights in the middle of the street. It’s not out in the open, but yeah. I think we’re there, or close to it.” 

The room is quiet for a long moment. 

“Hey Clarke?” Wells sounds hesitant, vulnerable. Clarke turns her full attention toward him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you ever think about what it would be like if your dad was still here?” he asks. He sounds like a little boy—not a twenty-five-year-old man missing his father, not the nineteen-year-old he was when he put Thelonius in the ground—a child, open and afraid. 

Clarke sighs and tucks her knees into her chest. “Every day. I don’t think we’ve ever needed him more, to be honest.”

Wells nods and mirrors her position, and they almost look like two kids at a sleepover again. “Every time I turn on the news, I think it wouldn’t be as bad if my dad were here. He’d know how to stop this better than I ever could. He could get through to Abby and Kane. He could talk to a reporter without butchering the story or allowing them to. He was just… good. And I could trust that he was good, and he didn’t sacrifice that goodness for the sake of politics.” He exhales a teary sigh before continuing. “I wish I knew how to be successful without losing myself. I’d be so much better at my job if I could just schmooze or play dirty, but I don’t want to. And I don’t think he’d be proud of me if I did.” 

“Your dad would be proud of you no matter what you did,” Clarke says softly. “He loved you. Above everything else.”

Wells ducks his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile. “I just want to feel like I deserve it. He gave up so much for me, and there’s so much he left unfinished because of it. I feel like I have to finish it, you know?” 

His words lodge themselves in Clarke’s throat alongside her ball of tears. She nods, resting her forehead on her knees to collect herself. 

Her pain rips at her throat, claws its way up, fighting for release. _ He died for me, Wells, and I can’t even stop the people who did it. What kind of daughter can’t get justice for her father? What kind of hero does that make me? I can’t even tell _ you _ who I am. He told the world. _

Instead, Clarke swallows the words, grimacing at the way they tear her apart on the way down. 

“Yeah. I get that,” she sniffles, and they leave it at that. 

* * *

Later that night, Clarke stumbles into her shitty apartment and turns on the heat. Her conversation with Wells bounces around her head as she stands before her easel and the blank canvas that’s been untouched for weeks. Clarke can’t remember the last thing she created that she was proud of. 

Grief is a funny thing. When Clarke’s dad died, her therapist told her that grief is a process, something with stages that would pass with time. Clarke isn’t sure she believes that. 

Her father is something of a phantom limb, or a broken rib that never healed right—with each breath she takes, he presses on her heart, putting pressure on the very thing he swore to protect. On her best days, he’s still the first person she wants to share her news with; he’s the first person she longs for on her lowest, too. Ironically, Jake Griffin would be the best person to help Clarke process his death. 

The thing about grief is that they say it’s a process, but it doesn’t really end. Not this kind of grief, anyway. Never truly getting over the person you lost is its own double-edged sword. Jake Griffin will forever live on through Clarke, but he’s not _ alive_. He can’t tuck Clarke under his chin, he can’t kiss her forehead, and he can’t respond ‘_forever_’ when Clarke tells him she loves him. They don’t get forever. They got sixteen years. 

She’ll never stop grieving her dad because she’ll never stop loving him. The two emotions live side by side in her chest, pressing against her heart, travelling her bloodstream. They’re in everything she does: dropping out of med school, hero work, painting.

He deserves to live on elsewhere, too: in the public mind, on TV screens, in paintings. 

Clarke searches for her paints and brushes, uncaring that it’s nearly midnight and she’s wide awake. She hasn’t been inspired to paint this viscerally in years; she has to ride it out. 

So she caresses paint to her canvas, moving with careful strokes as she paints from memory of a haphazard sketch still on her childhood desk. 

Clarke wants to deserve his love, though she knows nothing she does will ever be worth him dying for. Her father always took care of her. He made her a suit, left her video diaries to help with her powers, made a mask with his own two hands and left it where her mother wouldn’t think to find it. He was one step ahead of everyone and twice as empathetic, even without using his telepathy. 

He knew he was going to die, and he never once faltered in his resolution of right from wrong. Clarke wishes she had that same courage, that same sense of self. 

He knew who he was; he knew which parts of himself were worth holding onto no matter the cost. He wasn’t split down the middle in some strange dichotomy of a man. In everything he did, he was a hero, a father, a good man. Whether you met him relaxed at home or costumed in the street, you knew him. He lived his life with his heart on his sleeve, on display for the world to see, even when he hid his face. Especially when he took off the mask in front of the world. 

Tears roll down Clarke’s face as she sits on the floor. The colors are drying, forcing her to wait before she can start on the details. The tears won’t stop, they rip loose from her throat and stain her cheeks with their ferocity. Her ribs are broken, chest cracked wide, heart on display. 

Gravity pulls her back to the original painting once enough time has passed. She grabs a set of smaller brushes and holds them gently, taking her time with the stoic lines of his face. Jake Griffin was an honorable man, but not a proud one. He didn’t think he was above anyone despite his privilege. Clarke doesn’t want it to come off that way here. 

A new round of sobs breaks free as she touches up the corners of his eyes, that familiar crinkle there, even after all this time. She pictures the frantic scribbles in her sketchbook and sobs. She remembers. She remembers. 

She wants to deserve all the good she got from him. She wants to be good. She wants to be so full of light that it bursts out of her, that she can’t help but touch others with it as well. 

Clarke doesn’t bother to wipe her eyes as she steps back to admire her work—the first thing she’s been truly proud of in years. Since he died, probably. Until now, she thought her creativity died with him. 

Hope swirls like a dangerous thing in Clarke’s chest at the sight of her father’s face. 

Jake Griffin. As he wanted to be remembered. As Clarke will make sure he always is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So would you teach me I'm the villain**  
**Aren't I, aren't I the one**  
**Constantly repenting for a difficult mind?**  

> 
> Happy Holidays y'all here's some Pain!  
Song for the chapter is Stay Down // boygenius 


	4. do you know who you are?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Can't you see?**  
**I could, but wouldn't stay**  
**Wouldn't put it like that**  


If someone told Clarke a few months ago that she’d be opening her own exhibit at an art museum, she would have laughed in their face. But as she helps the event staff put up the finishing touches minutes before doors open, the reality of her dream strikes her. 

Everything from the high ceilings of the gallery to the careful layout of her art is straight out of a fantasy. The venue is a smaller modern art museum funded by the local university, one that’s perfect for Clarke’s debut. The past few months were a whirlwind of creativity and opportunity. Ever since the painting of her dad, Clarke’s inspiration is making up for lost time with a vengeance. It wasn’t long before she had enough pieces for a formal collection, and because of the nature of the art, it wasn’t hard to find someone to curate and display her work. 

Maya shoos Clarke away when she tries to straighten a flower arrangement for the third time, so Clarke takes her nervous energy to the bathroom to make sure she doesn’t look as much of a mess as she feels. 

She looks at herself in the mirror, straightening her white cocktail dress and fixing the slit so it sits properly on her leg. Her short hair is straight and professional. She smooths her skirt, fixes her gold belt, and shrugs the off-shoulder neckline into place. 

Clarke feels good about tonight’s outfit. Maya tried setting the attire to something more formal, but Clarke argued she’d be nervous enough without everyone in black tie. They compromised on a more casual middle ground with the cocktail dress code. 

Her phone screams that she has only seconds until doors open, so Clarke shoves it into her clutch and races out of the bathroom as quickly as her shoes allow. 

She runs face first into Wells, who reaches out to steady her by the shoulders. There’s just enough time between their collision and his touch for Clarke to put her mental walls up. 

“Happy opening,” he says, gesturing to the room behind her. Of course he’s the first one through the door; his support has been steadfast since the moment she told him she was making art again. Once Clarke had enough pieces to see the theme in her work, she decided not to show Wells until it was all put together. He hasn’t seen anything. 

“Thanks,” Clarke beams at him. She wants nothing more than to haul him around the hall and watch him react to every piece, but she’s the schmoozer tonight. There are obligations that come with being the artist at an opening gallery—hands to shake and asses to kiss. 

Wells must sense her nervousness, because he covers her hand in his. Clarke fights the pull into his head. “Go talk to the big names. I’ll be ready to do a walk through with two glasses of wine when you’re done.” 

Clarke sighs in relief and pulls him into a hug. “Have I ever told you that I love you?” 

“Yeah,” Wells chuckles, only slightly surprised by Clarke initiating contact, “but I won’t stop you from saying it again.” 

Clarke laughs while he makes his way to the bar, weaving through the thick crowd to do so. People flood into the exhibit, each glancing at her before heading toward the paintings, bar, or lounge area. 

Names and faces blur together, but Clarke is pretty sure she hits the important bases. She has a rousing chat with a circle of potential buyers, a fervent interview with a local reporter, and a long conversation with the museum curator that’s one ‘thank you’ away from Clarke professing her undying love and gratitude. Others pass before her, some making small talk before drifting to another part of the room, all indiscernible from the next in their cocktail dresses and dress pants. 

Clarke watches people at the door as they take in the scope of the place, assessing the theme on the banner in front of them: Behind the Mask. One man stands out from the crowd the moment his brown eyes fall on the banner. His eyes darken, his brow furrows. It’s not an ideal reaction.

Clarke takes in his relaxed appearance; he wears black dress pants and a white button up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbow. He’s attractive, certainly, with his messy hair and golden brown skin. He’d be even more attractive if he didn’t scowl at her banner from behind his glasses, no matter how well they frame his face. 

Something urges Clarke toward him—defensiveness, curiosity, intrigue. She makes her way to him through the crowd, stopping occasionally to flash smiles toward the right people as she goes. 

The man is considerably taller than Clarke despite her heels. She tries a disarming grin as she approaches, clearly en route to where he stands, only to be met by the same frown. 

Still, she persists. “Hi, I’m Clarke Griffin,” she starts, expecting an answer. 

He doesn’t give her one. Instead, his frown turns into a scowl at the mention of her name, which she asked the museum not to attach to exhibit advertisements for this exact reason. His eyes grow cold, his spine stiff as he looks her over in a new light. 

“Who are you?” Clarke asks, trying to conceal the spark of irritation brought on by his silence. 

“Bellamy Blake. I’m a professor at the university that helps fund the museum.” He beats her to her natural follow-up question, leaving an elephant in the room Clarke is unwilling to look away from. 

He beats her to that too. 

“Behind the Mask?” he draws out scornfully. “Kinda rich coming from you.” 

Those five, casually uttered words are a knife twisting in Clarke’s side, one that she’s been anxious to avoid since settling on the name of the exhibit. A blazing fire of righteous anger blazes in Bellamy Blake’s brown eyes, telling Clarke he knows exactly how much of an ass he’s being. Before she can respond, his jaw ticks and he continues. 

“Speaking of rich, how’d you manage the gallery? I don’t imagine your mother was willing to pull a few strings for this particular project.” 

Clarke narrows her eyes at him but refuses to take the bait. “Why are you here if you already have such a clear idea of what you’re going to see?” 

To his credit, Bellamy considers her question before answering, “I’m a history professor. I have a passion for art history too—almost minored in it. And I was interested to see what makes Abby Griffin’s daughter rebel so openly instead of hiding behind Wells Jaha. One way or another, it’s history in the making. Thought I’d get a head start on the curriculum.” 

“Did it occur to you that you could ask nicely?” 

“Sure, Princess. What was enough to make you break nearly a decade of silence on meta rights? Did you grow a spine, or did you decide to exploit your pain through art because your allowance got cut off?” 

If Clarke was the type to walk away from a fight, that’d be the final blow that did her in. 

But Clarke has never in her life walked away from a fight. 

She has it in her to answer calmly, fiery anger building beneath the surface of her words. “Did you read a word of the press release?” Clarke asks. She points to a few of the reporters around the room. “I’m raising awareness how I can. I’ve been helping Wells organize behind the scenes for nine years, and I haven’t spoken to my mother in seven. I have no control over the museum’s decision regarding my last name, and I’ve talked about that privilege to anyone who will listen tonight, but there’s no denying that my take on this subject matter—my feelings, my art—is unique to me. I’m here to tell my own story as well as the stories of people without a voice. Tell me, Mr. Art History, can you name a single artist that wasn’t exploiting their pain to do one of those two things?” She gives him a few seconds of mocking pause. “Next time you’re going to try to steamroll someone, make sure to do your homework,  _ Professor _ .” 

With that, Clarke turns on her heel and stalks toward a few newer reporters, sufficiently riled up to do more interviews. The next half hour is a whirlwind of shaking hands, answering questions, and making a speech at the request of the curator. During all of this, Clarke determinedly looks above or past Bellamy Blake, who has been trying to catch her eye since the moment she walked away. Clarke has said her piece and would be perfectly fine without speaking to him again, so she pays him no mind, instead finding Wells as soon as she’s free. 

He waits for her by the bar as promised, extending a glass of wine to her before she says a word. The wine is smooth down her throat when she takes a long sip, the relief of alcohol making her uncaring of her image. 

Wells chuckles. “That bad, huh?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I’m so tired,” she complains. All this skin to skin contact is painstaking. There’s no putting her walls down when her hand is the one everyone is trying to shake. “And I can’t even get drunk because this is  _ my _ event. What fun is an event for you where you’re the only one not allowed to get drunk?” 

“Well don’t pass out on me yet. I was promised a grand tour.” All chivalry, Wells extends his arm to her. Clarke takes it gladly. Contact may not be familiar, but contact with a steady, familiar presence like Wells is far better than bracing for a stranger. It takes less out of her, giving her more room to focus on talking about her art. 

They start at the beginning with a painting of a costumed Jake Griffin, just a teen when he started, standing tall in the street after his first big save as a hero. It’s paralleled with the last painting in the series, which is the painting that started it all. It begins and ends with her father. As it should. 

Awe and pride break out on Wells’ face as he takes in her art. He asks thoughtful questions, ones that even Clarke hasn’t considered before. She answers them carefully as they walk the golden hardwood floor, a purposeful meandering. For the first time tonight, Clarke slows down to admire her work. The past few months have been nonstop working and networking. This moment is the first one to let Clarke exhale. 

It helps to have Wells’ calming presence beside her. In this room full of busy minds, his is a content hum—one she can focus on without getting overloaded (or offended, in the few cases where she allowed her mind to wander to the passing thoughts of art critics). She can feel the emotions coming off of him in waves, intense enough to notice, but not enough to distract or burden her. If anything, his joy is contagious.

Wells stops dead at a painting of his own face shaded carefully in golden sunlight and deep brown shadows. Clarke smiles brightly both at the painting and his reaction. This one is a favorite of hers. 

When Clarke first picked up a sketchbook, Wells was one of her favorite muses. Where Clarke learned her dad’s hair with ease, Wells’ tight curls were a challenge Clarke was determined to master. Where her father had smile lines and wrinkles, Wells was smooth and child-soft. He was a lesson she happily learned over and over again; learning his lines was a true labor of love. To not include him in her first proper gallery would both cheapen her message and feel untrue to her gut. He belongs here. 

“That’s me,” Wells says, dumbfounded. 

“Glad my art is good enough that you recognize yourself,” Clarke jokes. 

“This exhibit is about metas.” 

“This exhibit is about  _ heroes _ ,” Clarke corrects. “A hero who doesn’t wear a mask belongs just as much as one who does.” 

He turns to her fully, tears glistening in his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Clarke smiles and pulls him in for a hug. “You don’t have to.” 

Wells wipes his eyes and pulls her along, trying to make use of her time so she can still take care of her extensive to-do list. Something has shifted in the air between them since the painting of him, but Clarke wasn’t sure what. The surge of love and gratitude still lingers, but there’s something else, almost a sadness Clarke can’t place. Wells masks it well. 

Just after the last painting, none other than Bellamy Blake makes himself known in unavoidable line of sight. 

“That guy has been following us for a while,” Wells comments, his tone accusatory through his painstaking neutrality. 

“I know,” Clarke mimics Wells’ tone. “I don’t care.” 

“You should talk to your guests. Don’t let me take away.” 

“Oh, I will. Just not him. I already said what I need to say.” 

Dread whispers in Clarke’s ear to make an excuse, but she turns to Wells only to be met with amusement. He’s enjoying this. 

Speak of the devil, Blake comes up at that exact moment.

“Could I speak to you?” He glances at Wells and shifts uncomfortably. That’s a victory, at least. “Alone, if possible.” 

Before Clarke can kindly tell Professor Blake to fuck off, Wells elbows her side and excuses himself, making quick work of putting distance between them. She’ll remember that. Bellamy’s words are out before Clarke can process Wells is gone. 

“I’m sorry. I read your press release and did some Googling, and I’m sorry. I know how it is to lose a parent to the registry. I shouldn’t have been a dick about it.” He tucks one hand into his pocket while he apologizes, the other betraying his guilt by rubbing the back of his neck.  _ Good _ , Clarke thinks.

“You’re right, you were a dick,” she remarks, eyeing him as he waits for her to acknowledge his apology. His chest puffs with an anxious breath, and she sees genuine regret in his eyes. 

For a moment, Clarke is tempted to peek into his head to see if he means it, but he seems open. Something about the vulnerability of offering knowledge of his own parent makes Clarke want to trust him. 

“But I accept your apology,” Clarke sighs, noting how he exhales in relief alongside her. 

“One more thing?” 

“You’re pushing your luck.” 

“I’ll leave if you want, but I was hoping to start over.” His voice lilts up at the end like a question. 

Clarke considers him for a moment. “Okay, we can start over.” 

“Walk me through it. I want to hear about it without tripping over my own tongue.” 

“More like temper.” 

He rubs his chin, his expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “I deserved that.” 

“Trying to get a head start on the curriculum?” Clarke watches him squirm under her scrutinous gaze. When she’s satisfied, she lets herself smile. “Walk with me.” 

Together they head back to the start of the gallery. Clarke has to stop and talk on the way, but Bellamy stands patiently to the side while she does. If it weren’t for his determination to make it up to her, she might be wary. But his effort seems to come from a place of genuine regret, and Clarke trusts her intuition. 

Just like with Wells, they stop at the picture of her father, all young determination and stubbornness from behind his mask. He stands tall, shoulders back as he surveys the surrounding rubble, his gaze lingering on the people who are still alive because of him. Like Wells, Clarke has painted her father in golden light, back lit by the setting sun. 

Bellamy peers down the line at a few paintings before bringing his gaze back to the first one. “Your use of light is interesting. I’m assuming there’s a deeper meaning to it, but I’d have to see the rest again to pin it down.” 

“Is that you asking me to tell you what it is or you asking me to move on to the next painting?” 

“Neither. This one is first. The portrait of him unmasked is last. I want to know why,” his brow furrows when his words land awkwardly. “If you’re willing to share, that is,” he adds. 

Clarke looks back at the painting. “It all revolves around him, I think. Everything I do. He’s my beginning, middle, and end. Seems fitting to externalize it in the layout. That last portrait was the first thing I painted for the exhibit, and this one was the last. First time in the mask and last time out of it. Seemed appropriate.” 

“You two were close then,” Bellamy comments, looking a bit shameful in her periphery. 

“Extremely.” Curious, she turns to look at him. “You sound surprised.” 

“Rumors flew after no one heard from you or your mother about it. Tabloids took that silence and ran with it.” He doesn’t say it outright, but he lays the pieces out for her to find, which she’s grateful for. 

“People think I knew what my mother was doing,” she half asks. 

“Among other things.” 

Dread drops in her stomach. “Such as?” 

“That you were the one to turn him in.” A few heads turn at Clarke’s sharp inhale, but Bellamy sidesteps to block her from prying eyes. He stands close enough to consider it an invasion of privacy if Clarke cared to call it that. Instead, she’s grateful for him giving her a few moments to process the gravity of what he’s told her. 

“I appreciate your honesty,” she manages, not stepping away. 

“You okay?” Bellamy asks almost gently, though that could be from him trying to keep his voice low. 

“Yeah, I just… that’s a lot to process. Why didn’t I know that?” 

“I’d  _ hope _ it’s because people close to you sheltered you from it, but I have a feeling it’s because no one had the heart to bring it up.” 

“Thanks.”

“For what?” 

“For having the heart,” she replies, wiping away tears before they have a chance to fall. “All night people have been asking about my relationship with my dad, but it never seemed like they wanted to talk about him being alive. Everyone asks about his death. At least I know why.” 

“Yeah, well,” Bellamy tries to wave her off, “like I said. I know how it feels.” 

Sympathy strikes in Clarke’s chest at his tone. “Who’d you lose?” 

“My mom.” His chin raises slightly, the lights of the gallery reflecting off his glasses, hiding his eyes for just a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, aware of how little her condolences fill that gap, but meaning it anyway. 

“Coming up on seven years now.” Bellamy doesn’t say it’s okay, but the explanation of time serves as somewhat of a dismissal. Though he doesn’t offer much information, Clarke senses his pain despite the inches of space between them. The ache of losing a parent is always familiar to her, as it’s a burden she carries herself. 

“Still,” Clarke puts a hand on his arm. “I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.” 

Suddenly Clarke notices their closeness. His body radiates warmth; his eyes a sad sort of kindness, and it’s such a stark contrast to how they began the evening that Clarke takes a step back to process. 

She puts on a smile and nods to the rest of the gallery. “You want to test those theories about light? There’s a quiz at the end of the tour.” 

For the first time that night, a smile spreads over Bellamy’s face. “Now who’s the art history nerd?” 

“I never called you a nerd. I called you a dick.” 

“Well you’re being a nerd.” 

“Says the one in round glasses.” 

“What’s wrong with my glasses?” 

“You look like Harry Potter,” Clarke laughs—honest to god laughs—and prays he attributes the flush of her cheeks to it. The glasses work for him, they really do. “All you need is a red tie and some robes and you’re golden.” 

He tilts his head. “What makes you think I’m a Gryffindor?” 

“Am I wrong?” 

“No, but I’m curious as to how you guessed it.” 

“I don’t reveal my methods,” she teases. It earns a chuckle from Bellamy.

They fall into comfortable conversation as they meander their way through the gallery, only stopping when Clarke needs to talk to someone. Potential buyers approach her, as do interested artists and visitors with questions about her work. Clarke gives them a respectable amount of attention, but she longs to get back to her conversation with Bellamy. 

When they get to her portrait of Wells, Bellamy voices his idea about light.

“Still not sure about the colors, but the shadows themselves… identity? Wells Jaha isn’t a meta, so he’s lit directly from the front, but your dad in his costume was lit from the sunset behind him. And in the last painting, he’s got no mask, and he’s in the light.” 

Clarke nods, impressed that he got it on his first guess

“I take it you two are pretty close?” 

“Since diapers,” Clarke smiles. “He’s my best friend. Definitely wouldn’t be here without him.” Clarke gestures to the gallery around them and beckons Bellamy forward to the next painting. Seeing the confused look on Bellamy’s face, she adds, “He got me off my ass about making art again. And dropping out of med school to pursue art in the first place. He’s… good. Just a genuinely good person. You don’t find that a lot these days.” 

Bellamy stops in his tracks just as Clarke turns to ask him a followup question. 

“What?” she asks. 

His stiff stature betrays his neutral voice. “I missed that one on the first go around.” 

Understanding washes over Clarke when she follows Bellamy’s gaze to the painting. 

Nero stands in the center of the frame, shrouded almost entirely in shadow. This painting is one of Clarke’s favorites, though she hasn’t admitted it to anyone for fear of mixed reactions. 

He stands alone in a warehouse surrounded by broken glass. Clarke went to great lengths to make the warehouse look ambiguous without ruining the vision she had of him in  _ their _ warehouse in her head. Not that she expects Nero to turn up at an art museum, but Clarke prefers to err on the side of caution with these things. There’s always the chance that it’ll show up on the news. If anyone else analyzes Clarke’s color choices to the extent that she did while painting it, Clarke might have some explaining to do. 

The warehouse is rundown, broken, shadowed in ambiguous blue aside from a single beam of sunlight streaming in from the broken window. The golden glow aims straight at Nero’s chest, illuminating his suit right above his heart while the rest of him remains hidden in the shadows. 

Bellamy gets over his shock and shakes his head. “This completely blew my color theory,” is his only comment. 

“What was it before?” 

“Intention. Golden light equals good intentions. Your dad, Wells, even that fire elemental with his family. But now…” 

“No, you’re right.” 

“You think Nero has good intentions?” he asks somewhat incredulously. A few heads turn their way, and Clarke glares at him before ushering him away from the crowd. 

“Not all the time. But I don’t think he has  _ bad _ intentions. Just that bit of golden light on his chest, not the rest of him like my dad and Wells. He’s still mostly in the dark.” 

“I don’t believe this,” he mumbles. 

“I know what he’s done, and I know what the news says about him, but I went to his neighborhood. When I started this project, I didn’t know what to do. So I went to where he patrols most of the time and asked around. The people there talk about him like he’s a proper hero. It’s incredible. There’s this kid I talked to, Miller, who wouldn’t say a word to me until I proved why I was asking. When I did, he went on about how Nero is like an older brother to him. He said it more colorfully, but still. They protect him there, and I think he protects them.” She breaks off at the look on Bellamy’s face. “I must sound crazy.” 

“No,” he hurries to reassure her. “I live in the area. I guess I just… didn’t expect this from you. It would’ve been so easy to paint him a different way. Why go to the trouble?” 

_ Lie. _ “The Psyren. Wells goes on and on about her, and her working with Nero didn’t make sense to either of us. This has to be it. She wouldn’t work with him unless she thought he was a good person, and she can read minds, right?” 

“I guess.” 

“I was trying to make sense of it.” 

“Excuse me,” a young woman interrupts shyly. “Are you Clarke Griffin?” 

Clarke excuses herself to answer the woman, leaving her conversation with Bellamy on pause while she answers questions about color mixing and brushstroke technique. Everything in Clarke yearns to get back to him and find out more about Nero, but she’s stuck in this conversation while he stares at the painting of Nero and waits for her. 

When she returns, Bellamy launches into a conversation about her use of color, giving her no opportunity to follow up on Nero. The conversation wanders just as the two of them do around the gallery. They talk about the registry, art, family, and smaller things too. Clarke watches Bellamy’s face light up when he talks about history and his students; it’s obvious that he loves his job. He listens attentively as Clarke recounts her journey through art, from med school dropout to the guest of honor at tonight’s event. 

Before Clarke knows it, they’ve discussed every painting in the gallery and find themselves at the bar. They both have yet to order, and there’s something in the air between them that Clarke can’t quite put her finger on. 

Bellamy stands so close. While he’s distracted looking out at the crowd, Clarke takes a moment to look at him properly. Despite her teasing, his glasses frame his face beautifully, drawing attention to his warm, kind eyes. Half moon bags are stamped underneath them—he’d bragged about his perfect university schedule, but he must pull long nights grading assignments. 

She pays more attention to his clothes, her gaze lingering on the way his shirt pulls tight over his chest and biceps, the muscles in his forearms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. His dress pants are complementary as well with their fitted material. Clarke would be lying if she claimed not to have walked behind him to check out his ass more than once. Between that, his tapered waist, and his broad shoulders, he’s extremely attractive—and Clarke’s type, if she were bold enough to have one. 

Electricity crackles in the air when her eyes find his, which are already conducting their own lazy perusal of her body. 

He grins shamelessly and leans closer, his scent washing over her. “What do you say about getting out of here? Is that the kind of thing an artist can do at her own gallery? It’s about you, after all.” 

Nothing would make Clarke happier than to say yes, but she looks around and sighs in disappointment. “I have to be the last one here. It’s about my  _ art _ , not me, and it’s my job to make sure it sells.” She glances back at Bellamy. “And I’ve been incredibly distracted for half the night.” 

His eyebrow quirks up. “Distracted, huh?” 

“You know they say not to stick too close to one person at these? Having someone with you makes other people less likely to ask you about your art.”

“Never pegged you for a rule breaker.” 

Clarke raises her chin. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” 

“What time is this thing over?” 

“Ten o’clock, why?” 

Bellamy waves over the bartender and asks for two more glasses of wine. “Then I’ve got plenty of time to learn.” 

Time passes almost imperceptibly as people filter in and out of the gallery. Clarke plays the part of gracious host and grateful artist, but her anticipation builds with each passing moment. A few hours ago, she never wanted tonight to come for fear of it ending. Now Clarke can’t wait for the doors to close. It’s been too long since she had a good lay, even longer since she’d clicked with a stranger this well. 

The two of them get to talking about loss, Clarke with her father and Bellamy with his mother. She senses his slight discomfort at the prospect of opening up to someone he’s only just met, which Clarke reciprocated earlier in the evening. Now, knowing about how much they have in common, Clarke feels understood in a way she hasn’t in a long time. Wells knows how it is to lose a parent, but not the way Bellamy does. Losing a parent to the registry is a different affair entirely, one that’s impossible to articulate to someone who hasn’t gone through it. 

At some point the bartender asks them about closing their tabs, prompting them to look around at the empty gallery. Funny, Clarke didn’t even notice people leaving except for those who stopped by to shake her hand. 

The only one left now is Wells, who makes his way to Bellamy and Clarke with a shit-eating grin on his face. Clarke will give him a scolding about it tomorrow; she can’t bring herself to care enough right now. 

His introduction to Bellamy is smooth enough, the two of them meeting with a firm handshake. Wells nearly winces from the force of Bellamy’s grip, which Clarke laughs at. The sound catches Wells off-guard, and he looks between them. 

“Get home safe, okay? I’ll call in the morning” Wells says, turning towards the door but locking eyes with Bellamy. “Get her home safe,” he adds, in case he wasn’t clear. There’s a vague threat in his tone—an  _ or else _ hanging off the end of his request. 

Bellamy just chuckles. “Will do.” 

Once the door shuts behind Wells, Clarke elbows Bellamy’s side and raises an eyebrow. “What’s with the laughter?” 

Bellamy looks out at Wells through the glass door. “I’ve been in a lot of fights in my time. I don’t think he’d fare very well.” 

Instead of being offended on Wells’ behalf, Clarke takes the opportunity to give Bellamy another hungry once-over. “Maybe not, but I would.” 

“Oh, yeah?” he laughs. “Care to test that theory?” 

“Sure. Your place or mine?” 

“Your pick.” 

“Pretty sure half my bed is covered in laundry,” she jokes, uncaring that she throws a wrench into the momentum. The easy comfort of throwing out that honest answer is sexier than anything she could’ve come up with.

To his credit, Bellamy recovers smoothly. “My place then. I prefer to use the whole bed.” 

Clarke smiles and takes his hand, tugging him toward the coat check and the door. Before too long, the two of them are in the back of a taxi, pressing together for both warmth and anticipation. 

Bellamy’s arm is around Clarke, his fingers tracing shapes into her shoulder as the streets fly by their window. She can’t focus entirely on his fingers on her skin without going into his head, which is something she doesn’t do with hookups as a rule. It’s hard to walk away from someone after that. 

Part of Clarke wouldn’t mind not walking away, but she squashes that thought. Relationships don’t work when you’re hiding half of yourself. Bellamy might understand Clarke Griffin, but he wouldn’t understand The Psyren. She’ll leave before he wakes up in the morning. Sneaking out is something she’s gotten good at. 

However, leaving is the last thing on Clarke’s mind as Bellamy pulls her back into his chest while he unlocks the door to his apartment. His arm wraps around her waist, his lips dipping to her exposed shoulder while he twists the key in the lock. Clarke melts into him, her fingers tightening around his arm. 

His voice is low in her ear. “You know we have to go inside to start the fun, right?” 

“This is fun too,” Clarke sighs, reaching behind her to pull his head back down. A puff of air fans over her collarbone as he laughs, but he does what she wants. 

Bellamy’s lips reconnect, this time higher on her neck as he walks them through the door and kicks it shut. In a flash, he slips out from behind Clarke, pinning her against the door and kissing her neck with devoted intent. 

Clarke sighs, burying her hands in his curls the way she’s wanted to all night. Bellamy’s hands find her waist, his grip tight as he pulls her close. 

As glorious as his lips sucking at her pulse point is, Clarke’s hunger for him gets the best of her. She tightens her fingers in his hair and tugs his head up to capture his lips with her own. 

They slot together perfectly, and the world stops for a moment as Clarke loses herself in him. She stays in her own head, but the pull to him has never been more magnetic. In that moment, nothing exists outside of Bellamy and his lips on hers. 

It’s easy in the way that good kissing always is: an effortless push and pull, a give and take, joy beating like a drum in Clarke’s chest. She’d smile into the kiss if it didn’t mean stopping. The man is too good for Clarke to give up even when her lungs burn. 

Clarke would call it desperation if she were more coherent, but at the moment it just feels like desire. Clarke  _ wants _ him, this kind, beautiful man who makes a terrible first impression. That want drives her to pull him closer until there’s no space between their bodies. 

Bellamy moves to shove his thigh between Clarke’s legs only to be stopped by the material of her skirt. He huffs in frustration and leans down to grab the hemline, dropping kisses to her chest as he tugs it up. It occurs to Clarke how much larger than her he is. Though she noticed their height difference countless times tonight, it’s never been as obvious as when she steps out of her heels, delighting in the way her dress bunches up in his hands when she loses the inches. 

She sighs as her feet adjust to the flat floor, and Bellamy swallows her relief, claiming her mouth with an intensity the night has not yet reached. Her skirt continues its steady path up her thighs, guided by Bellamy’s warm, large hands splayed across her skin. 

The deliberate slowness isn’t working for her. Clarke is happy to let Bellamy take charge—it’s hot as hell—but she needs relief now. Her hands close over his, dragging them and her dress up to her waist. Wrinkled fabric is the least of her worries. That’s morning-Clarke’s problem. 

The only thing that matters now is the way Bellamy’s knee shoves between hers, the way he presses her a little harder into the door. Clarke breaks the kiss to let out a moan when he presses her down onto his thigh, and she grinds down like a fucking teenager. He elicits a hunger she’s never experienced before, one that could devour her whole if she lets it. 

Bellamy’s hands tighten on her at the sound of her breathlessness, and he returns his lips to her neck, dead set on hearing it again. And  _ god _ , he delivers. He sucks at her pulse point, scrapes his teeth against her skin, and soothes the spot with his tongue. His mouth is needy, relentless in its pursuit, and Clarke gives into what he wants. 

“Fuck,” Clarke moans, her voice hoarse from strain. Her senses are on fire, the pull into his head overwhelming in the wake of all this stimulation. Clarke has never wanted to let go more, but she reins in that thought. 

Instead, she wraps her arms around Bellamy’s neck, tugging him upright before tightening her grip to hop up. He catches her effortlessly, holding her in place while she wraps her legs around his waist. 

Then she shifts herself just slightly, putting pressure where they both desperately need it, and his grip tightens on her. She’ll have bruises from him when this is over, a thought that has never excited her with past one-night stands shooting through her with a thrill. They half-fall into the door as Clarke tightens her legs, teasing him with a smile on his face. 

Bellamy looks up at her, his eyes dark and hungry, and it drives the breath out of Clarke more than their collision with the door. In a flash, she’s tugging him back to her, relishing the soft groan she draws out of his mouth when she repeats the movement. 

He straightens, turning to walk to his bedroom without his lips ever leaving Clarke. Even with all Clarke’s teasing efforts to rile Bellamy up, he doesn’t stumble. Instead, he holds her like she weighs nothing, his hands on her ass while hers tug encouragingly on his hair. 

They reach Bellamy’s bedroom in a matter of moments, though Clarke is focused solely on him. Their descent to the mattress is the only thing that registers for her to know they made it. That and the fact that Bellamy’s hands are free to explore now, roaming from her ass to her thighs planted on either side of him. They wander to her waist, pressing her down into his lap and eliciting a moan from each other them. 

Just to make him wait, Clarke eases off of his lap and onto his left thigh. Bellamy huffs, trying to pull her back, but she plants a hand on his chest. She can feel the muscles of his thigh flex underneath her as she tests his self-control. Slowly, she drags herself along his thigh, eyes blazing as they lock onto Bellamy’s. 

His hands return to her body, helping her along as she grinds shamelessly on his thigh. The crotch of her panties is soaked, but the consequences of that could not seem farther away. Relief and pleasure course through Clarke’s veins like a hard drug. 

She’s shockingly close to coming from such little effort or contact when Bellamy tugs her to the apex of his thigh to kiss her again. This time she lets him direct her movements, the loss of control tantalizing. All Clarke has to do is go where he wants her to, and he wants her to go wherever draws the best sounds from her. He captures each noise with his lips, so devout in his claiming that the possessiveness of it sends Clarke’s heartbeat into overdrive. 

Suddenly he’s wearing too much clothing. Or rather, he has been all night, but now it’s an issue that Clarke can’t fix fast enough. Her fingers stumble over the buttons of his shirt, but she manages to push it off his shoulders, breaking the kiss to take her fill of him. 

Clarke admires Bellamy’s chest, the smooth expanse of tan, freckled skin and corded muscles moving underneath. His thigh tenses underneath her, sending a wave of heat through her lower belly. 

Her hands stutter over his abdomen, where two scars interrupt his flawless skin. 

Two horrifyingly  _ familiar _ scars. 

Now, with her hands over them, Clarke can almost see the blood on her hands, feel the panic rising in her chest. 

Scratch that, panic  _ is _ rising in her chest. There’s no mistaking the distinct lines of the stitches she used to sew Nero up in that warehouse; it’s a specific pattern she learned from her mother. Unless Bellamy has been stitched up by Abby Griffin herself, there’s no other way he could have a scar with that pattern. 

She’s brought back by Bellamy’s hands abandoning her hips to cup her face. He leans closer, his brow furrowed in concern as he searches her eyes. 

For a moment, Clarke wishes Bellamy had worse intentions. If he did, she could launch herself back into the heat of the moment and leave in the wee hours of the next morning without a second thought. Or she could run out his door now and make a point of never seeing him again. 

But she thinks of how hard he’s tried to make things up to her tonight, how he gave her the truth to every answer she asked him, how he shielded her from prying eyes mere minutes into their conversation about her father. 

There’s no separating that from all Nero has done for her, not now that she knows Bellamy is him. He saved her life back when she was nothing more than someone who got in the way of an important job, an annoyance to him. And later taking a bullet for her, living with the proof of that sacrifice on his skin every day… Clarke can’t ignore that. He deserves better. The two of them have always been evenly matched, and for Clarke to walk away knowing who he is without explanation feels like a grave disservice. 

Bellamy’s thumb strokes Clarke’s cheek, his voice gentle when he asks, “You okay?” He tucks her hair behind her ear. 

Clarke swallows thickly. “ _ Nero _ _,_” she chokes out. Perhaps not the best way to articulate it, but it’s all she can manage. 

Bewilderment contorts Bellamy’s handsome features. “What?” 

“ _ You’re _ Nero,” she states. 

Bellamy huffs in a way Clarke thinks is supposed to be a laugh, but it comes out strained. “If you want to stop, you can just tell me.”

“Stop.” 

“See? That’s not so—” 

“Stop  _ deflecting _ ,” Clarke clarifies. He’s still holding her face. “Tell me where you got the scars.” She lowers her hands to them, noting how her stitches held despite the countless fights she saw him take on in the weeks after they parted ways. 

Bellamy sighs. “Like I said, I’ve been in a lot of fights. Sometimes they get ugly.” 

Clarke screws her eyes shut at his half-truth. She needs to catch him in a lie. “Did you get stitched up at the hospital?” 

“What difference does that make?”

“Just. Answer me… please.” 

“Yeah, I went to Arkadia General.” 

“Hospitals don’t use that kind of stitch,” she says, smiling sadly. 

“Why does the kind of stitch…” Bellamy trails off as he searches her eyes, where he surely finds his answer. Clarke makes no effort to hide it. He swallows roughly. “You’re The Psyren.” 

The words hang heavily in the space between them, made smaller by Bellamy’s hands on Clarke’s face and Clarke’s on his scars. Bellamy seems to realize this, and his hands retreat from her face only to hover awkwardly. Without a natural place to set them, they settle tentatively on Clarke’s waist, unintentionally pressing her down on his thigh. She fights to keep her face neutral, but his eyes linger and widen when he catches her biting her lip. 

The space between them seems even smaller than when they were speaking. With the truth out there in the open, there’s no reason to be so close. They lock eyes, and Clarke is once more struck with the urge to close the space as a means of distraction. 

Instead she stands, hastily shoving her skirt down her legs as she puts distance between herself and Bellamy. She needs to clear her head. She  _ needs _ to stop touching him. 

Bellamy stands with her, drawing Clarke’s gaze to the unmistakable damp spot on his thigh. As if this encounter can’t get any more awkward. 

Before he can speak, Clarke puts up a hand. “Can you please put on a shirt before we start talking?” 

Bellamy looks down at his chest, still speechless, and raises an eyebrow in question. 

Clarke chooses her battles. “I’ve already admitted that you’re a distraction. Please don’t make this worse than it has to be.” 

Bellamy’s eyes dart down to her skirt, wrinkled from where it rucked up around her waist in their rush. 

“What?” Clarke huffs. 

“Nothing, I’m just… not sure clothes are gonna help much,” he chokes out. He looks down at his thigh and snaps out of it. “If you wait in the living room, I’ll be out in a second.”

“Okay.” Clarke hurries out of the room, pausing to catch her breath only once the door shuts behind her. 

Bellamy is Nero. Nero knows who she is. Nero is the  _ only person  _ who knows who she is. 

Clarke takes a deep breath and sags into the couch, tucking her legs underneath her and trying to steady herself. Bellamy isn’t just Nero; he’s still the man from the gallery as well. There has to be room for the caring man she met to coexist with the troubled meta she knows. 

The gentle click of his door opening brings Clarke back. He’s dressed in sweats, which might be more distracting to Clarke than seeing him shirtless with her own arousal stained on his pants. This side of him is undeniably  _ human _ , and it gives Clarke a headache just thinking about the multitudes he contains. 

“If I’m being honest, I’m still having trouble processing this,” Bellamy admits. 

“That makes two of us,” Clarke agrees. 

The room falls painfully silent. 

“Does Wells know?” he asks like he already knows the answer. Clarke swallows a moment of panic at the realization that she’s given Wells up as her biggest weakness to Nero, her paranoia battling with her stubborn belief in his good intentions. 

She straightens, folding her hands in her lap. “No, and he can’t. Does anyone else know about you?” 

“My sister.” Bellamy’s eyes dart away. “But I haven’t seen her in… a while.” 

“I’m sorry.” Clarke looks at her hands, unsure of how to interpret his discomfort and sorrow. 

“I guess I understand how The Psyren knew how to sneak into Abby Griffin’s house undetected,” he comments, sinking into the chair across from the couch. He leans forward, elbows on knees. “And it half makes sense of your mentor. I think I’m right in assuming it was your dad, but he died when you were sixteen, right? That’s young to develop your powers the way you have.” 

“He made video diaries,” she answers softly, “when he was discovering his own powers. Left them for me on a hard drive along with the suit.” 

“Makes sense,” he nods. The corner of his mouth drags up. 

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“It makes sense,” he repeats. “Clarke Griffin and the Psyren. Both mostly made sense on their own, but this completes the picture, fills in the gaps.” 

“So you’ve got me all figured out?” 

“ _ God, _ no. I could spend a lifetime and still never figure you out.” He clears his throat. “What I mean is, it felt like something was missing from each. And now it makes sense.” 

“That makes one of us,” Clarke grimaces.

“Oh, I want to hear this,” Bellamy leans back, gesturing with interest for Clarke to continue. 

“The more I learn about you, the less you make sense. History professor by day, wanted for multiple accounts of murder by night? And you were an ass at the gallery, but then you  _ weren’t _ and—” Clarke cuts off before she can say something to make the situation worse. She dares to glance at Bellamy and finds his jaw working the way Nero’s did when she annoyed him. “I don’t understand.” 

“What’s so uncomfortable about that to you?” he asks. Clarke shifts but doesn’t answer. “You’re the one who said I have good intentions. Why does knowing who I am complicate that for you?” 

“Because you took a bullet for me!” Clarke cries out. 

Bellamy looks at his lap, unable to hold her gaze. 

Clarke uncrosses her legs and leans forward. The dam breaks. “You took a bullet for me, you murdered fifty-six people to keep me safe, and then you told me not to stick around. And I  _ know _ you got it from my thoughts, but that makes  _ less sense _ . I never would have known you knew how I felt, and we could’ve parted ways after finding the telepath girl. Instead we’re here.” 

“Okay, me telling you to go did nothing to get us here,” Bellamy insists. “This is its own mess.” 

“That’s the least important part of what I just said.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Sorry that was my takeaway.” 

“You involved me in mass murder to save my life.” 

“Would you rather be dead?” 

“I’d rather you listen to me when I tell you no one has to die!” 

Bellamy runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Like I should’ve listened when you said you’d figure a way out? Who knows what they would’ve done with you.” 

“My mother would’ve cut me open and dissected me within an inch of my life,” she answers, her voice going cold. “And then she would’ve sewed me up with  _ that _ stitch—” she points at Bellamy’s stomach “—before sending me to wherever they send registered metas.” 

Bellamy’s voice is stone. “So you worked for her.” 

“I was a kid,” Clarke defends. “My dad had just died, and no judge was going to emancipate me from my mother. My powers were weak at best, and the only adults I had any semblance of trust for were my mom’s friends. I got out as soon as I could. But sure, if you’re going to blame a seventeen year old for learning how to stitch people back together after her father was torn apart by inmates on national fucking television, I’m your girl.” 

Clarke takes a shuddering breath; she refuses to cry in front of Bellamy. 

“He took off that mask to save metas, and they arrested him for it.” She tries to steady her voice. “Everyone knew that he’d die if they held him with the people he put away before his trial, and they did it anyway. He might not have gotten a fair trial, but he wouldn’t have been torn to shreds.” 

She wipes at her eyes, unnerved by Bellamy’s silence. He just sits there, jaw tight and eyes low, like Clarke is too much to look at. She’s tired of it. She stands. 

“He was good. He didn’t kill, he tried not to injure, and he got fucking crucified for it. And you—” Bellamy’s head jerks up, fiery warning blazing in his eyes that Clarke ignores “—you kill, you injure, and you’re still here almost seven years later. And you took a bullet for me. And I’m supposed to try to make my dad proud while accepting that I’m alive to do it because you killed fifty-six people.” 

Bellamy stands. “I’m sorry Princess, but maybe if your dad had trusted his own hand over the justice system, he’d still be alive. Don’t pin your baggage on me. It’s not mine to unpack just because you don’t have the stomach to finish a job.” 

His words strike Clarke harder than any blow. She feels like she got sucked into his head again, but instead of his trauma, she’s reliving her own. 

Bellamy seems to understand he’s crossed a line, because he takes a hesitant step towards Clarke, reaching for her. She recoils, not trusting either of them given their high-strung emotions, and because she doesn’t want him near her after hearing those words leave his mouth. Anger boils in Clarke, spilling over her edges. 

“I can hear you talking to yourself when you say this shit to me,” she snarls, “and I don’t have to go in your head to do it. You might be able to lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. That’s the worst fucking part! You’re so convinced that you’re doing the right thing by taking people’s lives, yet you call me good because I don’t.” 

“I do what needs to be done. It isn’t always good.” 

“You’re the only opponent I haven’t been able to stop, and you were the first real one I faced.” 

“Oh, really?” 

Clarke lifts her chin. “Yes.” 

“What about your mother?” 

That stops Clarke’s momentum. 

Bellamy raises his hands. “You haven’t stopped your mother.” 

“Not yet,” Clarke manages. 

“And how many metas will disappear before you do? When does the death toll become high enough that you consider killing her might actually be the right thing to do?” Clarke steps forward and shoves Bellamy in the chest with enough force that he takes a step back. 

“Because I’ve already lost one parent!” she spits. “I’ve seen what happens when you’re responsible for a family member’s death, and I’m not strong enough to do it. So, great, Nero, you’re right about me. But don’t think for a second that I’m not right about you too.” 

Clarke stalks forward with each sentence, pointing her finger at a shrinking Bellamy. 

“Your desire for control is bullshit. You’re so out of control that you don’t believe you’re doing anything wrong. You’re the only one fooled by your ‘I don’t care’ attitude. You’ve always cared, and pretending not to just makes you a fucking liar. You tell yourself there’s no choice other than killing because if you admit that there is, you’ll have to reevaluate your methods and maybe make a goddamn change.” 

Bellamy looks like he’s been struck—his brown eyes wide and disbelieving. 

“You could be better,” Clarke insists. “You could do good the way you think you can’t. Fuck what people write about you, fuck the madman of Rome. Be better than that, because you can.” 

“I can’t,” he chokes, tears threatening to fall. “I tried, and I lost my sister. I can’t.” 

“Let me help you.” 

Bellamy searches her face, their tear-stained eyes meeting, and falls into his chair with a heaving sigh. Clarke follows suit, feeling the tension in the room subside. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his face with his hands. “For putting you through all of this. And being an ass.”

“Which time?” Clarke mutters.

“All of them,” he replies sincerely. “I don’t really talk about— And you knowing is just— I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits. “I just know that you make me confront a side of myself that I try not to think about, and now you’re the only person who knows who I am. There’s no getting away from that. From you.” 

“Is that what you want?” Clarke asks. “To get away from me?” 

Bellamy rubs his face with his hands. “Honestly? No. I want to be better, I just… The last time I tried nearly broke me.” 

“I’m sorry about your sister.” 

“Don’t worry, she’s alive. I’m just dead to her. It’s my fault, anyway.” His voice is bitter and distant. 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry.” 

“Stop.” 

“Stop what?” 

“Being empathetic after I was a dick to you.” 

Clarke shrugs, attempting to lighten the mood. “Yeah, well. There were several hours of non-dick behavior too. Consider it as payback for those.” 

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke answers honestly. “I’m a little rattled by this whole thing.”

“Finding out who I am or arguing?” 

“Both? Neither? More you knowing who I am than anything else.” 

“Why is that?” 

“Because no one has ever known,” she breathes. “I never even told my dad, he just  _ knew _ . And I could never tell my mom, and then Thelonius died, and I couldn’t tell Wells. That’s everyone I could’ve told.” 

“Why can’t you tell Wells?” Bellamy asks. “Surely he’d be understanding about this sort of thing.” 

“Because of what happened with his dad. I couldn’t save him. Wells knows The Psyren was involved, I’m sure that’s why he’s so fascinated with her. How do I tell him that I was the first one to find his dad?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Clarke looks at her watch and curses, almost grateful for the excuse to change subjects. “Fuck, it’s late.” She stands quickly. “I should, uh, get home.” 

Bellamy nods and stands with her, gesturing to the door as he starts toward it. He opens it for her and leans against the door frame once she’s through. 

“Is there a way I can contact you?” he asks. "Meeting in abandoned warehouses and art museums doesn’t seem like the best system now that we know each other’s names. Unless you want me to linger outside of the museum, but I don’t think they’d appreciate that.” 

“A random man outside my gallery, yeah, not so sure about that.” 

“I was thinking full costume, actually.” 

Clarke laughs and eyes him. His arms are crossed, his shoulder braced against the door frame, but there’s an air of vulnerability under his humor. 

“I’ve got a phone,” Clarke offers. “Best not to leave any incriminating texts, but it calls too.” 

She takes hers from her clutch and hands it to him with the contacts open, watching as he types away. His own phone dings with a text from inside the apartment, and he hands Clarke’s phone back with a shameless grin. 

For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something important. Clarke gives him the space to, but his face goes neutral and he says, “Get home safe.” 

“I’m pretty sure any pickpocket around wouldn’t know what hit ‘em,” Clarke jokes. 

Bellamy ducks his chin and smiles. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All the lights couldn't put out the dark**  
**Runnin' through my heart**  
**Lights up and they know who you are**  
**Know who you are**  
**Do you know who you are?**  

> 
> Here's a horny break from the regularly scheduled angst! Thank you to everyone who has reblogged or commented with their kind words, it means the world to me! And thank you Harry Styles for putting out the album when you did because I was searching for a song for this chapter for the longest time. 


	5. who would save a wretch like me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's not that I think I'm good**  
**I know that I'm evil**  
**I guess I was trying to even it out**  


Clarke isn’t sure when she and Bellamy became non-registry-related partners, but it’s a welcome development. Patrolling solo is a lonely practise with nothing to focus on but the cold seeping into her bones and the wind whipping at her exposed skin. In an ideal world, criminals would look at the weather and call it a night, but Arkadia is far from ideal. 

Nights like this make Clarke grateful for having someone watching the city with. A blizzard swept through the day before, leaving Arkadia coated in a blanket of white that’s only interrupted by the occasional set of footprints. For once, the city is quiet.

Still, if Bellamy and Clarke are taking advantage of the cover snow provides, there’s a chance that someone with worse intentions is doing the same. God forbid a water elemental causes trouble on a night like this. 

Snow slows its descent, easing from a flurry to a soft sprinkle. It wraps Arkadia in its pale arms with the delicacy of a lover. Clarke glances at the man next to her, all stoic silence as the light reflected off the snow glitters on his face. 

As she has countless times in the weeks after finding out who Nero is, Clarke gives silent thanks that his armor hides so much of him. Unless Clarke stands close enough to see his freckles and the scar on his upper lip—which she avoids for fear of remembering how it felt to kiss said lips—she can’t tell he’s the same man who came to her gallery, let alone the man she went home with. 

Clarke banishes that thought from her mind the same moment Bellamy turns to her. _ Scratch that, _ she thinks, _ the eyes are the same. _

He looks at her differently; there’s a level of respect and understanding Clarke doesn’t recall seeing. Or maybe it was there and masked by hatred. 

Yet Clarke isn’t sure she ever _ hated _Nero. It’s hard to hate someone when you understand their pain, the driving force behind the bad they do. From the moment Clarke slipped into Nero’s head over six years ago, something stronger than circumstance bound them together. At the very least, her empathy has been a link between them. At most, it was fate.

There’s also the matter of the debts they owe to each other. No matter how much Clarke wants to hate Nero or believe she once did, there’s no denying that he saved her life—twice. 

_ Bellamy, _ she reminds herself. There is no Nero/Bellamy separation, only Bellamy: the man she fought, the man who killed in front of her, the man who saved her, the man she went home with, the man with her now. 

“I just realized I never thanked you for saving me,” Clarke says into the wind. For a moment she thinks it’s carried her voice away. 

Bellamy’s voice cuts through the wind, still the gruff rumble he uses in costume that never works outside of combat. “Maybe not, but you’ve mentioned it.”

“Well,” she glances over at his profile, “thank you. For saving my life.” 

A smile cracks Bellamy’s pensive expression. “Twice.”

“Still an ass.” 

“Never denied that.” 

Clarke nudges his shoulder with her own. She doesn’t remember sitting so close to him. “Shut up and let me be nice.” 

The starlight pours over the constellations of freckles on his jaw and casts a slight shadow on his lip scar. It’s honestly cruel that the only things his costume reveals are the most recognizably human—just the parts of him she’s kissed and his eyes, shadowed yet shining as he waits for her to continue. 

Clarke clears her throat and looks out at the sky. “You saved me when we were constantly at odds, back against Emerson. And then against Alpha Tower… the bullet.” 

“Which you got out of me,” Bellamy adds. He shifts in her periphery, following her gaze. “I never thanked you for that either.” 

“Well, you’re welcome.” 

“Ditto.” 

“Is this weird to you, too?” Clarke blurts.

Bellamy tenses but doesn’t look at her. “You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“Us being the only people who know about each other, that’s just… weird. Right?” 

He just shrugs. “I never thought anyone would, but you finding out on accident isn’t the craziest. Never would’ve guessed it would’ve happened the way it did, but it’s not insane.” 

“I always thought it would be Wells,” Clarke breathes. A question rises in her throat, one she’s tried to stifle for weeks. “Were you ever going to tell anyone?” 

For a while, Bellamy is silent. The muscles of his jaw clench, but not in annoyance. This movement is jumpier—a struggle. 

“I didn’t expect to live long enough to have to,” he admits. 

Clarke’s words desert her. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters without glancing her way. 

“Like what?” 

“Like…” Bellamy huffs and turns to her. “Like you haven’t thought that before. Or like you’re trying really hard not to acknowledge you have.”

“I… I don’t—” 

“Why didn’t you come with me?” he asks. “Against Alpha, why did you tell me not to come back?” 

“I was afraid of what you’d do,” Clarke says carefully. “And, I don’t know. I regretted it as soon as you were gone.” 

“Did you think I wasn’t going to come back?” 

Clarke looks at the ground. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t really think, just hoped.” 

Bellamy nods, and Clarke is almost tempted to see what he’s thinking. Or worse, she could ask. 

Instead she asks, “Why do you do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“Fight the way you do. Wait, stop—I don’t mean killing. I’m _ not _bringing that up right now. I mean fighting the registry. You could get tenure at a university outside Arkadia. You could stop all of this. Why stay?” 

Bellamy tilts his head. “Doubting my good intentions?” 

“Trying to understand them.” 

“They were after my sister the moment they knew she existed. What we had in those days, it wasn’t living. She was sixteen, and she was on the run from the most powerful people in Arkadia just for being born. Regardless of where I stand with her, I have to stop the organization that made that possible. Especially when they’re still doing it. I have to stay alive to see that through.” 

“And after?” Clarke prods. 

“I’ll think about after when I get there,” Bellamy sighs. Facing the sky, his mouth relaxes into a slight smile. “Look, meteor shower.” 

Clarke allows the blatant subject change to gaze out at the sky. City lights and smog dim the starlight, but between the clouds are streaks of light across the sky. Midnight blue and silver dance around the still-falling snowflakes that live between them and the stars. 

“Make a wish,” Clarke breathes, feeling a bit like a child. She glances at Bellamy only to find him looking back at her. Quickly, she looks up. “Forget it.” 

“I wouldn’t know what to wish for,” he says. Clarke can feel his eyes on her, but can’t bring herself to meet them. “What about you?” 

“I wish I knew.” She laughs half-heartedly. “I guess that’s a wish, right? Wishing I knew what to wish for?” 

Bellamy tucks his responding smile into his chest, shaking his head before looking back at her. “Wouldn’t be any closer to getting it.”

“Maybe not, but I’d have a sense of direction.” And it should be a big thing, confessing that. Clarke wishes it wasn’t so easy. 

* * *

The next patrol Clarke gets her wish—nothing about it is easy.

One moment Clarke is listening to Bellamy tell a story about one of his students who stops in for his office hours, the next a piercing cry cuts through her. To make matters worse, the sound comes from a child. Sheer terror floods the little boy’s voice as he calls for help, his voice breaking from stress. 

Judging by the way Bellamy falls silent beside her, Clarke reckons he heard it too. Together they rush to their feet and into action. Bellamy trusts Clarke to get them down the side of the building, and she trusts him to get to the kid first. She shouts the location to him as he speeds away, levitating herself a few paces behind him. 

They find the boy in the street, unharmed except for the horrible screams coming from his mouth. Fear unlike Clarke has ever felt radiates off of him, rendering him unreadable. Clarke can’t get his name, where he’s from, or what’s troubling him. Terror is the only thing present. 

He’s bundled from the cold, his big coat reducing him to little more than a blue blob in the middle of the narrow, icy street. Bellamy races toward him, vigor renewed with every scream. The boy’s eyes scan him, all wide and ready to run if he weren’t paralyzed. Though the sight of Nero isn’t often a welcome one, the child is downright animalistic as Bellamy approaches. 

Too late, Clarke realizes what’s happening. She just breaks through the barrier of fear in the kid’s mind when Bellamy reaches him, reaching out to haul him up by his coat. Clarke watches the smoke pour out of the coat, enveloping Bellamy in a thick cloud until he’s barely a silhouette from thirty feet away. 

Clarke continues forward, knowing the consequences of her actions and choosing to see them through anyway. There’s a chance that she can get herself and Bellamy out, but he’s as good as dead if she leaves him. She may not know what that gas is, but it can’t be good. 

It infiltrates her lungs, leaving her gasping and coughing as she struggles forward to where she lost sight of Bellamy. Smoke surges around her, and Clarke holds her breath to avoid its effects. She reckons she’s got a thirty second window to escape before all hell breaks loose. Someone set that boy out as bait, and Bellamy sprung the trap. 

She hears Bellamy before she sees him. A low cry breaks through the eerily silent street, and Clarke follows the sound only to stumble over his body. The boy is silent and motionless beside him. 

Bellamy screams again, the fear rolling off of him as intensely as the boy’s moments ago. Clarke rushes to him only to watch him recoil. 

His face screws into terror and pain, his brown eyes fixed on her—panicked and welling with tears—but there’s no familiarity. He looks at Clarke like she’s his worst nightmare. 

Still, there’s no time to lose. Clarke lets out the breath she was holding and breathes through the fabric of her hood, but the ache behind her eyes tells her it’s no use. She fights the fear creeping up her spine, shakes off the whispers in her ear, and crouches to hold Bellamy and the boy, hoping she can get them out before she joins them on the pavement. 

The world doesn’t go black so much as it fades like a bad transition in an old movie. Time passes slowly, like swimming in honey. Sunlight on the pavement warps, becomes more sinister as it casts long shadows. The line between reality and nightmare blurs the more time passes—the weight of Bellamy’s hand in Clarke’s is a grounding comfort, but the longer she looks at him, the less certain she is of what she sees. 

At first it’s just Bellamy passed out on the concrete. Clarke can manage that. What she can’t manage are the gaping wounds that appear in his stomach, reopened where she stitched them months ago. 

“No…” Clarke cries. “_No!”_ She lunges forward to apply pressure. Blood pours between her fingertips no matter how hard she presses, growing to a pool that makes Clarke’s stomach drop. This isn’t possible. He can’t be dying like this. The stitches scarred over ages ago. 

But here he is, dying anyway. 

As if it can’t get worse, the world changes yet again. Instead of red armor, Clarke’s hands press against a midnight blue suit. She looks up to Bellamy’s face to find the glazed eyes of Wells staring back at her. 

Clarke screams, the violent sound tearing its way out of her throat with a force she fears may rip her in half. Wells—her best friend, her life—lays dying in front of her with his blood on her hands, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Everything she’s done for the past ten years was to prevent this moment, and it’s playing out right before her eyes. 

There’s nothing to be done, so Clarke screams. 

Grief grips her body like a vice, freezing her in place with dread and pain alike. Wells’ lifeless body is stiff and unmoving underneath her, and Clarke wishes she was dead alongside him. 

With that thought, Clarke lowers herself to the ground, draping an arm over his chest as she clings to his side. All she can do is hold him and pray.

“Please,” she sobs as darkness creeps into the edges of her vision. “Please stay with me.” 

* * *

When Clarke wakes, she is sixteen years old. The sound of her father’s voice echoes down the hallway only to be silenced by her mother. Clarke rolls her eyes, tired of losing sleep over her parents’ fights. 

She rolls over in her twin bed, ready for a long night of tossing and turning trying to hear and ignore their argument, but tonight is different. Where the fight usually escalates, it quiets. They’re still talking, this time in hushed tones. Judging by the distance of their voices, they’re in her mother’s study. 

Intrigued, Clarke slips out of bed and down the hall, careful to avoid discovery as she creeps along. Instead of bickering, she’s met by tense whispers, her mother’s voice strained in a way Clarke isn’t sure she’s heard before. 

“Jake, promise me that you won’t put that suit on again. There are laws—there are forces in place to handle the people you’re stopping without you risking your life. Let someone else do the job.” 

“How many people will die while I sit back and watch?” Jake asks, his voice tired. “How many murders will happen because the people supposed to stop them have too many hurdles to jump to make it in time? How many innocent metas will die because the forces meant to protect them have decided they’re the enemy?” 

Clarke hears footsteps that are too light to be her father’s—her mother is pacing. 

When Clarke closes her eyes, she can see her father standing there, shoulders slumped and body weary. “I can promise you that I won’t put the mask on, how about that?” 

Abby clicks her tongue. “I know a loophole when I hear one, Jake.” 

“I can’t stop. You and I both know there’s no use in pretending I will. Unless you can promise me you’ll put an end to this registry, I can’t promise I’ll stop trying to fight it.” There’s a beat of silence. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I meant to tell you and Clarke—” 

“_Clarke!_” Abby cries. “You want to involve her in this?!” 

“She has a right to know.” 

“She is a _ child!_” 

“She is _ our _child,” Jake asserts. “And she deserves the truth. I’m willing to bet she knows more than half of it by now.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Abby starts. “They’ll arrest you at best, have you killed at worst. It’s _ not _ because you’re a meta, it’s because you’re a _ vigilante._”

“That’s a risk I have to take. People deserve to know.” 

“Think of your daughter!” 

“I _ am _thinking of her!” 

“Do you want her to grow up without a father?” 

“That choice isn’t mine to make.” 

The silence that falls upon the room is deafening. Clarke is glued where she stands, tears in her eyes. 

The heavy implication seems to dawn on Clarke’s mother. “Jake, if you do this… I can’t protect you. Delete the video. Burn the suit. Be the father Clarke needs.” 

Her dad huffs, a short, frustrated sound. “So the example you want me to set for my daughter is to turn my back on injustice? I know you don’t think that’s what’s happening, Abby, but people are dying, and it will only escalate.” 

“I want you to be here. I want you with her when she graduates high school and college, and when she walks down the aisle, and—” 

“In exchange for how many losing that? How many fathers have signed up for the registry that won’t ever see their kids again?” 

No response. 

Suddenly the scene shifts. Instead of her mother’s study, Clarke stands trapped in a stranger’s arms outside of her house. Her father walks down the driveway with his hands cuffed uselessly behind him. He doesn’t put up a fight as the Alpha Tower truck waits for him on the street, just holds his head high and marches forward like a soldier. 

Clarke calls for him, struggling wildly. He stops in his tracks, ignoring the five guns that train on him the moment he stops complying. Driven by the resistance, Clarke jerks free of the guard holding her and wills him still long enough to get in a good punch. 

She races along the driveway to collide with her father. It’s clear by the sudden drop of the guns that the guards don’t know what to do. She glares at them from over her father’s shoulder, wishing more than anything that his arms were free to hold her. These guards have been to her house and shaken her father’s hand. They asked about her college plans, broke bread over polite conversation, and now they point their guns at her father’s head. 

One starts forward to tear her away, but Clarke spits on him like a cornered animal. She doesn’t have control of her powers, but she can rely on instinct enough to get her dad out of here. Then it can be the two of them on the run. He can teach her how to control her powers. They can take down her mother’s registry together. 

“Clarke, baby.” Her dad steps in front of her, his back to the guard. “There’s no stopping this. It’s okay. You have to let me go.” 

“I can’t,” Clarke sobs. “You’ll die.” 

“I made my choice,” he responds sadly. “The time for you to make yours will come later.” He leans in. “I love you.” 

Clarke throws her arm around her dad and presses her cheek to his. An overwhelming sense of peace and finality washes over her, a dignified resignation to let nature run its course. Too soon, gloved hands tug her away, but she doesn’t stop looking at her father. He nods, and in that moment Clarke knows she isn’t crazy. He knows about her powers. She just felt _ him. _

She’s pulled back toward the house where her mother waits with tears running down her cheeks. There will be time for anger over that later. 

Now there is only time to watch as Jake Griffin is marched to the end of the driveway and loaded into the back of the truck, guns pointed at his back; to linger as the truck roars to life with squad cars by its side, like they’re transporting a criminal instead of a hero; to stare into the distance as they disappear down the street, every instinct in her body screaming to stop the cars. Clarke isn’t sure how she’d do it, but she thinks she could. Maybe she couldn’t hold them at a standstill, but she could blow the tires, shatter a windshield or two. She could save him. 

Instead Clarke stands in her mother’s arms, too afraid to protest despite the rage festering inside her. For the first time, Clarke feels completely alone. She’s not sure the feeling will ever go away. 

Clarke stands there shellshocked after her mother goes inside. A blanket appears around her shoulders, but she can hardly feel the cold. Her whole body went numb the moment she lost sight of her dad. No blanket can keep out that kind of chill. 

At some point she ends up on the living room couch. Clarke doesn’t remember coming inside or turning on the TV, but she distinctly recalls arguing with her mother about keeping it on. The news is the only connection Clarke has left. She refuses to give that up for her mother’s comfort. 

She watches the changing blue light of the TV dance across the ceiling, unwilling to watch the reporter chatter excitedly about the news of the night. The last thing she wants to see is stolen footage of her dad being carted off to jail, nor does she have any interest in the thirty seconds of his confession that aired before he was cut off by authorities. 

That’s why they came for him, she’s found out: because he took off the mask in a video. Or rather, that’s what the reporters say. In the morning they’ll realize that there wasn’t enough time between the video airing and the cops arriving at the Griffin Estate. Someone tipped them off. Someone sold out Clarke’s dad. 

“Clarke, honey… you should get to bed. I’ll let you know if anything else happens.” Clarke’s mom appears in the doorway, her voice gravelly, but Clarke doesn’t spare her a glance. 

Speak of the devil. 

“I’m not moving,” Clarke croaks. 

“You need to rest.” 

“He’s going to _ die,_” Clarke whimpers. “They’re putting him in a holding cell once he’s processed. He isn’t even going to make it to a trial.” 

“You don’t know that. He can take care of himself,” her mom attempts. 

“He shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t be alone.” 

“No, but he is.” 

“And why is that?” Clarke says to the ceiling. “How did they get to our house in thirty seconds, Mom? The closest station is ten minutes away.” 

Abby clears her throat and leaves the room. 

Clarke has never wanted to be wrong more than she does right now—about both of her parents. Her mom turning her dad in. Her dad dying within the hour. Still, the sinking sensation in her gut tells her she’s right. 

Sure enough, an hour later, Clarke receives a stabbing pain. She doubles over and gasps, feeling as though she’s been kicked in the stomach. Seconds later a similar pain knocks the air out of her lungs. 

In a moment, Clarke understands what’s happening. She can almost hear the jeers in her ears, see the hungry looks of her father’s cellmates as they beat the life out of him. She suffers silently, afraid and unsure of how to play her pain off to her mother if she’s discovered. 

_ Fight, _ she begs, unsure of whether her dad can hear her but desperate enough to try. He shouldn’t be alone. _ Fight back, please. You can take them. _

No response comes—no acknowledgement of her presence. The light simply turns off, and the pain fades as quickly as it came. 

Minutes after, the reporter delivers the news that Jake Griffin is dead. He says it like Clarke isn’t withering into the couch with each word that gushes from his smiling lips, like a man hasn’t died. 

Clarke cries herself to sleep that night, and she doesn’t leave the couch for days.

The scene changes again, bringing Clarke to the gallery, floral decor and vaulted ceilings included. 

Standing in the middle of the floor with his back to her is none other than Jake Griffin, alive and well. 

“Dad?” Clarke asks, afraid of what she’ll find if he turns around. Will he be here only to die on her again? What horrible twist waits for her in this vision?

But when he turns toward her voice, he’s unchanged to the crinkles by his eyes. The world slows down as Clarke takes him in. Nothing about this vision makes sense, but the world makes sense in the way it always did when he was around. 

“_Dad,” _Clarke breathes, her words abandoning her as she rushes forward. Her legs move on their own, and soon she collides with his familiar chest. His arms wrap around her, the sound of his chuckle echoing in her ear as she clings to him. 

“Hey there, kiddo,” he laughs. 

Clarke pulls back to look him in the eyes, overwhelmed by the sight. “How is this possible?” 

“I’m thinking _ why _ is more important than _ how,” _her dad remarks, his hands rubbing her back. “Why me?” 

Clarke’s voice is small as her eyes well with tears. “Because I miss you.” 

“I miss you too, baby.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, taking in its short length. “But there’s more to it than that.” 

“I let people die,” she confesses, afraid of the words. 

He softens, his eyebrows knitting together. “I know. Every hero has to at some point.” 

“No, I did _ nothing_. You said I was the best of you, Dad, and then I let—” 

“Hey.” Jake grips her shoulders. “Easy. We don’t have a lot of time. I don’t want you to spend it beating yourself up. Do you know how you got here?” 

“Hallucinogenic,” Clarke responds. “Bellamy and I got hit. They used the kid as bait. Not sure who they are, but we aren’t dead, so it can’t…” She turns to her dad with panic in her eyes. “Wait, he’s alive, isn’t he?” 

“For now, yes. He got a worse dose than you did though. He’ll be in worse shape when you wake up.” 

“But he _ will _wake up?” 

“Yeah, kiddo. He’ll wake up, but it’ll be ugly when he does. Try to keep him asleep for as long as possible if you can. He won’t be much help in a fight.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I see things.” Her dad shrugs. “The toxin elicits fear, that’s how it gets control over your brain. You’ll need a happy memory to get him out of it. That’s why I’m here. His might not come as easily. He won’t say it, but he needs you.” 

“There’s so much I want to say,” Clarke sniffles. 

He wraps her up in his arms, placing his chin on top of her head. “There will be plenty of time to say it one day, kiddo. Right now you have lives to save. You have to get out now if you’re going to make it.” 

“I love you.” 

“Forever,” her dad responds, planting a kiss on her forehead. 

They pull apart, holding hands. 

“Suit looks good on you, kid.” He winks. 

Clarke can’t stop the smile on her face. “You picked it.” 

“But you put it to use.” 

“I’m gonna miss you.” 

“I never stopped,” Jake confesses. “But I’ll be here. Take your time, okay?” 

Clarke swallows the lump in her throat. “Okay.” 

* * *

Clarke comes to in the back of a truck similar to the one her dad was taken in. The truck jostles on the road, gears grinding and wheels groaning as they hit one pothole after another. 

Looking down, she realizes she’s still curled around Bellamy the way she was when she laid down next to Wells. She sighs in relief after a quick glance at his stomach, thankful to find no open wounds. For the briefest moment, she buries her face in his armor, thanking every deity she can name for him being unharmed. She’s just getting used to having someone in her corner; to lose him now might be unbearable. 

The reprieve is broken by a grunt from the bench beside them. “She’s up. Pry them apart and we can drop the dead weight.” 

Hands extend toward Clarke, ready to tear her away from Bellamy, which was apparently impossible while she was unconscious. It’s probably the only reason he’s still alive. 

These men must be idiots. One man points a gun at Clarke to cover his partner reaching for her, but there’s no other protection. They kidnapped two of the most well-known metas in Arkadia without restraints, and they seem unbothered at the prospect. That or they understand that restraints won’t hold a telepath and the strongest man in the city. 

Given the smug look on the further man’s face, Clarke would wager they’re just idiots. She rolls off of Bellamy, freezes the closer man’s arm in place, and flashes a smug grin of her own. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Out of all the telepaths in the goddamn city, why the fuck do they want _ her?_” 

“Shut up!” his partner hisses. Clarke hears him shift and turns to see him pointing his gun at Bellamy’s head. “Let him go.” 

With a roll of her eyes, Clarke wills the gun into her outstretched hand, trying to contain her fury. They know Bellamy matters to her, but she doesn’t have to give them any more leeway. Instead she feigns boredom. 

“Are you done?” she scoffs. “Who wants me?” 

The two men stare at Clarke, so she aims the gun at them. Her mind is more dangerous, but the gun gets their attention. 

“I said,” she cocks it, “who the fuck wants me?” 

“We don’t know,” the one closest to her rushes. Clarke takes a moment to find his name. 

“Really, Miles?” Clarke lets herself chuckle as his eyes narrow. “Because I can find out either way, but it’ll be easier if you tell me.” 

Miles glances back at his partner, who shakes his head. 

“It came from Alpha Tower,” Miles admits. “Oh, shut the fuck up McCreary, it’s not worth dying over. Alpha wants you, and they want Nero dead, but that’s all we know.” 

“I wouldn’t kill you,” Clarke insists. “Might make your life hell, but I wouldn’t kill you.”

Both men look nervously at Bellamy.

“You sure about that?” McCreary grunts. 

Clarke steps in front of Bellamy. “What?”

“You know what they say about the company you keep.” 

“That’s not—” 

They’re interrupted by McCreary pulling a knife from his boot and lunging toward Bellamy. Clarke intercepts him and pins him against the wall of the truck, planting the knife in the metal just above his ear. Rage tinges her vision red as she forces a support bar over his chest, bending it to pin him long after she’s gone. 

Miles holds out his hands, his eyes wide with fear.

Clarke knocks McCreary upside the head, turning back to Miles once she’s sure he’s passed out. 

The truck lurches to a stop. 

“Look,” Miles rushes. “Five armed guards are coming. When he wakes up, he’s going to be… afraid. Might not recognize anyone or anything. The toxin is going to take longer to pass through a big guy like him.”

“What happened to the boy?” 

“Don’t know. They use kids as bait for metas on occasion.” _ Please don’t kill me. _

Clarke knocks him out too. 

Just as Miles promised, five armed guards greet Clarke when the door opens, but Clarke is ready for them. She throws her gun into the truck and rips theirs out of their hands to join it, firing off a warning shot to attract the cops and scatter these people. She and Bellamy will be long gone before anyone else arrives. 

Once the last of them is subdued, Clarke races to Bellamy, relieved to find him unharmed. She wastes no time grabbing his arms and levitating them out of there, climbing high to get her bearings.

They’re on the outskirts of the city, only a few miles from Clarke’s apartment, which will have to do in a pinch. The night sky gives them cover as they race toward it, cold wind whipping at Clarke’s hood. 

Bellamy stirs as she maneuvers them through her window, fueling her sense of urgency as she lowers them to the floor. His eyes open moments later, still clouded with terror. 

“Do it,” he chokes out. “Kill me.” 

Clarke rushes to his side. “Hey, you don’t mean that. Bellamy? It’s Clarke. You don’t mean that.” 

His eyes clear as he looks at her, and Clarke sobs in relief. He knows it’s her. 

Then tears well up in his eyes. “Clarke. Kill me.” 

It takes everything in Clarke not to recoil. “That’s the toxin talking, not you. I’m gonna get you through this, okay?” 

“No, I don’t deserve that. I’ve hurt so many people. They’re here—I can see them.” His eyes dart around her living room, and his chest heaves. “I deserve to live with it, but I’m _ asking _you to kill me. I just— I need it to stop.” 

Clarke swallows the lump in her throat and eases off Bellamy’s helmet, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll make it stop, but I’m not going to kill you.”

“I’m scared,” he admits.

“I know.” Clarke moves his head into her lap. “But I’m here.”

She massages Bellamy’s scalp until his shoulders relax, working her fingers toward his temples. It doesn’t do much to soothe his fear, but he trusts her touch. 

Bellamy’s brain is a breeding ground of terror. It washes over Clarke the moment she enters his mind, sending a chill down her spine. Terrible thoughts lurk around every corner, waiting their turn to terrorize Bellamy. 

Clarke’s father told her to dig, so Clarke aims for Bellamy’s childhood. He smiles when he tells stories about his sister, so that’s where Clarke starts. One memory stands out from the rest, so she wrenches it to the forefront of his mind. 

She opens her eyes to a dimly lit room with a twin bed. A small girl shifts under a raggedy blanket, trying to adjust to better hear a young Bellamy’s voice as it drifts through the room. 

Bellamy holds a book—_Ovid, _ Clarke reads. Octavia fights to keep her eyes open, looking at her brother like he hung the moon in the sky. 

When his sister is out cold, Bellamy tucks the blanket around her little body and slips out of her room. Somewhere in her mind, Clarke notes that the memory is slipping into unfamiliar territory, but then Bellamy speaks. 

“Hey, Mom. Any news on school for O?”

Aurora sits up from her bed and gestures for Bellamy. He sits cautiously on the edge. 

Aurora phases in front of them. For a moment, she nearly disappears, the next she’s solid. The whole thing takes less than a second, looking like a glitch. 

Aurora frowns and wrings out her hands. “O can’t go to school, Bell. We’ve talked about this. Unless she can stop running around like a blur—” 

“She gets excited. If I could just take her out of the apartment—” 

“No.”

“But—”

“Bell, I know you want what’s best for your sister, but she can’t leave. She’s not like you. You can control your strength, but she can’t control her speed. O doesn’t even know how fast a normal human moves. If O loses control, she’ll run through someone. We can’t risk it. School would expose her.” 

Bellamy shifts, visibly upset. “My sister, my responsibility. I’ll take care of her, Mom. If we sign her up soon, we’ll be at the same school. I can look out for her.” 

“Your responsibility is to keep her safe, baby. That means keeping her here.”

The next few words warp like they’re underwater. Clarke’s vision blurs as the light around her changes. 

Tension rolls off two figures in the center of a warehouse—_their _ warehouse, Clarke realizes. In the center stands Bellamy and an older Octavia, fury rolling off of her in waves. Bellamy’s hands are shackled, and though the bonds shouldn’t hold him, he makes no move to escape. 

“O, I’m so sorry.” 

Clarke senses the drug’s effects and rushes to Bellamy’s side, grabbing his hand and trying desperately to pull them out of this memory. She thinks she remembers a story about the two of them playing games in the house; she can find it fast enough if they get out of here now. 

Bellamy can’t feel her, of course, but the contact helps. She thinks she’s got it…

Before Clarke can tear them away, Bellamy goes flying across the warehouse floor. The chains go taut with a sickening pop, and Clarke recognizes the sound of a dislocating shoulder. 

Any hope Clarke had of getting them out dies when she looks back at Octavia. All that effort to escape, and all Clarke did was change her back into a child. 

Octavia darts forward, her juvenile bangs blowing back from her face just before she disappears into a blur. For a second, Clarke thinks she’s gone. 

Then Octavia reappears above Bellamy, shoving one knobby knee into his chest as she leans into his face. Her other leg plants over his chains, holding him still. 

She wails and lands a punch to his face at normal speed. Bellamy accepts it, unwilling to throw his sister off. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth. 

“You’re dead to me,” Octavia sobs. If Clarke didn’t know Bellamy survives this, she’d think Octavia was about to deal the final blow. 

Instead, Octavia leans in close, her small hand blurring inches away from Bellamy’s heart. 

“If you follow me,” Octavia warns, “or _ ever _try to see me again, I swear to god I will run right through your chest. You hear me?” 

Bellamy nods, his eyes fixed on his sister like he’s taking one last look. For all Clarke knows, he is. 

There’s a sense of finality as Octavia speeds away and the memory fades. Clarke gets a firm grip on Bellamy’s hand and attempts to wrench back control. Enough toxin to warp memories is still in Bellamy’s system, so Clarke needs to find a memory with less trauma. 

In a last ditch effort, Clarke remembers his radiant smile at her gallery, and she pulls the memory up in his mind. She sees herself grin, feels their closeness at that first painting, and thinks this just might work. 

As vision-Clarke beckons Bellamy to the next painting, Clarke realizes there’s nothing for the drug to warp. All there is is Clarke and her soft smile, Bellamy and his determination to make up for his behavior. It’s the most human either of them have been in ages. 

He cracks a joke at his own expense, and Clarke senses his joy at having made her smile. 

Clarke wills the moment to slow, fighting the toxin. The scene shifts to the fight after as her grip slips, but it doesn’t sting the same as the other visions. Then Bellamy is leaning against his door and watching her leave, her name in his phone and repeated on his lips.

“Clarke…” He smiles softly, then shakes his head. “Clarke.” 

“_Clarke?_” 

The walls of her apartment reel into sight as Clarke comes back into her own mind. Her heart rate skyrockets at the sight of Bellamy in her lap, relieved to find him looking at her without fear.

“Bellamy,” she sighs. 

“What… how did…?” 

“It was a setup,” she grimaces. “Alpha put out a hit on us. The kid was bait, but you got there first. I got us out and back here.”

“The kid?” 

“He wasn’t there when I woke up. The men with us didn’t know either. I can’t locate him.” 

Bellamy closes his eyes with a heaving sigh. 

“I saw you dying,” Clarke says. “When we went down, that was the first thing I saw.” 

She leaves the air open for him to speak. He doesn’t. 

“And then you were Wells—” Clarke takes a shaky breath. “You were Wells, and Wells was dead, and I— I just…” 

“You were my mother,” Bellamy confesses. “All bloody and telling me it was my fault, to go find O…” 

“Hey, it’s over now. You’re okay,” Clarke insists.

“No, I’m not.” Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall down his temples. Clarke resists the urge to wipe them away. “My mother… if she knew what I’ve done… who I am—” he takes in a shuddering breath. “She raised me to be better, to be _ good _. We were dangerous, the three of us, but we didn’t have to be. Our powers didn’t make us the monsters people said we were.” 

“Bellamy—” 

“But _ all _I do is hurt people.” Bellamy sniffles, holding back tears. “I’m a monster.” 

“Hey.” Clarke shifts so he has to look at her. “You’ve saved my life. _ Twice. _And you’ve done questionable things, but you always believe that you’re doing what you have to.” 

“I’ve wanted to, Clarke. There were times when I wanted to kill.”

Clarke feels a confession deep in her chest, words she never dared admit even to herself. “Me too.”

“What?” 

“There have been people I wanted to kill. You aren’t a monster, Bellamy. You’re human. And…” Clarke searches his face. “I _ need _you. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you, and neither would half this city. You want forgiveness? I’ll give it to you. You’re forgiven, okay?”

Bellamy sits up, his hand finding her knee in his rush. He’s so close. “Come with me.” 

“What?” 

“You and me. Screw everyone else. Let’s just… _ go_.” His eyes are desperate, but his offer is genuine. 

For one electrifying moment, Clarke is tempted to say yes. It would be so easy to disappear. No one knows who they are, and, except for Wells, there would be no one to miss them. 

But she thinks of Wells alone in this fight, all the people suffering at the hands of Alpha, and she can’t agree. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, shaking her head. “You were right. We have to stop Alpha and worry about the after when we get there.” 

Bellamy sighs like he knows she’s right. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Clarke promises, hopes. 

Exhaustion takes over Bellamy, who slumps back onto Clarke’s legs. “Can we figure it out tomorrow?” 

Her hands return to his hair. “Whenever you’re ready.”

They stay there, unwilling to compromise the clarity and calm that settles over Clarke’s apartment. Clarke watches Bellamy in the dim light, how he sighs into the silence and closes his eyes. Her eyes are drawn to the scuff on his jaw, which she would want to clean if it didn’t mean moving. 

The apartment is only half as messy as she feared; a few stray dishes left in the sink, a few pieces of clothing left on her chair. Of course, the darkness shields her eyes from anything worse. The clock on her stove reads 1:48 AM. 

It’s late—too late for Bellamy to make it home safely. 

Clarke sighs and wills the lights on. 

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans, shielding his eyes. 

Clarke ignores him and stands, offering him a hand. 

He looks at her quizzically. 

“You’re not going out there right now,” she answers. “My couch is comfortable, crash on it.” 

Bellamy takes her hand reluctantly. 

“I can’t—”

“Look, there are people out there looking for us, and there’s no cover for you to get home. You’re not risking it,” Clarke insists.

“I’ll be fine.” 

Clarke steps forward and points to the cut on his jaw. “Go in the suit and they’ll find you in minutes. Go without and they’ll find out who you are from this. You’re staying.” 

She marches into her room and rustles around for something for him to wear. Wells left sweats last time he was over, and he’s big enough that they’ll fit Bellamy. 

Bellamy is sitting on the couch when she walks out. She gives him the whole spiel: where the bathroom is, how to flush the faulty toilet, where blankets are, etc. before threatening his life if he leaves. 

Bellamy huffs and holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am.” 

Clarke gives him a curt nod and rushes to her bedroom, unsure of how to handle him in her space. 

Limbs aching, she sheds her costume, tired of being The Psyren for the night. Her bedroom is a mess, and she spends several minutes searching for her phone only to realize she left it outside. 

Bellamy is standing by the couch, blanket in hand. Wells’ clothes are the slightest bit baggy on him, a detail that Clarke finds endearing. 

He looks up, dropping the blanket onto the couch as he clears his throat. 

“I just wanted to say thanks,” he says. “You dealt with a lot of shit today. You didn’t have to pull me out of mine, too. That, and the saving-my-life bit. Thank you.” 

There’s so much Clarke wants to say in response. _ Of course I saved you; The toxin would’ve worn off, but you didn’t have to suffer; I’m sorry about your sister. _

Instead she asks, “You’re not mad I went in your head?” 

Bellamy ducks his head. “A little late for that. Besides, I—” He looks at her, his face open, vulnerable. “I trust you in there.” 

Without thinking, Clarke rushes across the room and throws her arms around Bellamy’s neck. His arms hover at her sides, unsure, and then come around her with crushing force, rocking her slowly. Neither of them break. 

His exhale jostles them both, but Clarke keeps her face tucked into his neck. She hasn’t been held in so long, and Bellamy’s arms are so strong that they nearly press her broken pieces back together. 

When they part, Clarke backs up into her own space, thrown from being in someone else’s for so long. She tugs her sleeves over her hands and gives Bellamy a quick, “You’re welcome,” before darting back to her room, unsure of what just happened and unsure if she wants to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **But you were right, I was asking for it**  
**I always am**  
**It's no good if the pain doesn't make you feel like you earned it**  
**And I probably deserved it**  

> 
> Thank you everyone for your comments on the last chapter, your feedback means so much! Given how many people liked the change of pace, I tried to keep this chapter fairly balanced between angst and pockets of slower pace to breathe in. Chapter six will be more of the latter!  
I'd apologize for the amount of dialogue stolen directly from the show, but I'd rather that than have cheap knockoffs in the fic. I'm a sucker for a good callback, especially from Day Trip (which is my favorite episode if you can't tell).  
Songs for this chapter are Wretch // Autoheart and Even // Julien Baker, which was a big inspiration for this fic. 


	6. you've been lonely too long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's not your eyes**  
**It's not what you say**  
**It's not your laughter that gives you away**  
**You're just lonely**  
**You've been lonely, too long**  


It was an offhand comment, a sarcastic remark, a _ hey, if touching people is a problem because you never do it, why don’t we practice? _

What a catch-22 that question was. An offer stood underneath the teasing tone, just light enough for plausible deniability. 

That’s how they end up on Clarke’s couch, wrapped in comfy clothes while a midday breeze blows through an open window. The air is crisp in a way that’s rare and welcome this time of year—breathing is easier, lighter, now that frigid air doesn’t seep into Clarke’s lungs. 

So they practice. And it should be weird—Bellamy stretched out next to Clarke on the couch, the soft skin of his inner arm warm against her palm. This isn’t a warehouse training session or emergency stay over. She opened the door to him in joggers and a thin long sleeve rolled to his elbows, not snuck his armored body in through the window. He took the _ elevator_.

Clarke tucks her legs underneath her and faces Bellamy, eager to keep her focus as she nears her record of staying in her own head. 

“Okay, my turn to ask a question,” she says. And, yeah. That’s a thing too. When touch alone was no longer an obstacle, distracted touch became the next objective. 

She sneaks a peek at the stove clock over Bellamy’s shoulder, ignoring his voice in her head droning on about how the whole point of this is to lose track of time. Clarke is too competitive for that. Two minutes. 

Bellamy catches her and shifts to block the clock. “Cheating,” he reminds her. “Fire away.” 

Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “Do you wear contacts when you go out in the suit, or are you flying blind?” 

Bellamy squints and pushes his glasses up his nose—a tick Clarke is almost certain he isn’t aware of. “_That’s _ what you want to know?” 

“What if you lose a contact in a fight?” Clarke asks. “What if you scratch your eye? Did the smoke from last month hurt more, or were you sort of protected?” 

“Wow.” Bellamy shakes his head. “So you’ve given this some thought.” 

“And you haven’t given me an answer.” 

“It depends. I put them in before patrols because it’s hard to see the ground from high up. But if it’s urgent, I’ll go without them. I’m not blind, you know.” 

“Any mishaps?” 

“It sounds like you _ want _ me to have mishaps.” 

Clarke shrugs and bites her lip, hiding a smile. “I’ll stop whatever you don’t see.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” he grunts. 

“You sound like an old man.” 

“I’m only a few years older than you.” 

“I don’t know,” Clarke says mildly. “If I were still in med school, you could be my professor.” 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “If a twenty-five-year-old med student took sudden interest in an intro history course, I’d be all yours.”

Something about _ I’d be all yours _ accompanied by the idea of Bellamy in his professional clothes (that button up and slacks that hug his body in all the right places) has Clarke shifting in her seat—

The world goes out of focus as Clarke gets pulled into Bellamy’s mind. Like all things they practice, this has gotten easier with time. Clarke can pull herself out before any memories fly at her, though they’re still left panting as she pulls her hand away from his skin. 

“Thirty-seven minutes,” Bellamy sighs. “New record. You okay?” 

“I’m fine. You?” 

“Might need a minute.” 

Bellamy sinks into the couch with closed eyes, running a tired hand through his hair. Clarke watches the rise and fall of his chest. 

Bellamy’s automatic response to “Are you okay?” is a brisk “I’m fine.” For him not to brush Clarke off feels like a victory. Not that they haven’t saved each other enough to be running high in the trust department, but it’s strange knowing that someone who trusts you to stop bullets coming at them balks at the thought of sharing slight discomfort. 

He rests his hand over his heart, the fabric of his long sleeve going taut at the shoulders. “What did it for you that time?” 

“Huh?” 

“I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out what distracts you.” He shoots her a cocky smile. “What did it?” 

“Med school,” Clarke lies. “Assuming I survive this whole Alpha thing, I keep thinking about how long I can make ends meet on an artist’s salary. I’ve got to sell more if I’m going to keep this shithole apartment.” 

“That’s pretty distracting,” Bellamy says to the ceiling, not sounding like he believes her in the slightest. 

Deflect, deflect, deflect. “You sure you’re okay?” 

Bellamy sits up with a groan. “Yeah. You’re getting out faster. Less reliving scarring memories that way.” 

“It’s not exactly fun for me either,” Clarke grumbles.

“I’m sorry, whose trauma is it?” Bellamy raises his eyebrows at Clarke, who chuckles at defeat. “That’s what I thought.” 

Instead of calling it quits, Bellamy offers Clarke his hand. 

Not his arm. His hand. 

He eyes her. “You gonna take that?” 

When he puts it like that, Clarke feels ridiculous. She takes his hand unceremoniously, palm in palm, with half a mind to ask him what he thinks he’s pulling. 

“I gotta ask, what’s with the paint on your costume?”

All Clarke can do it tilt her head in confusion. He could ask her anything, but he asks her this. 

“On your suit. The paint splatters,” he continues as though she didn’t understand. “They weren’t there the first time I saw you.” 

Then again, Clarke asked him about contact lenses. “Oh, it was…”

Bellamy’s thumb burns a slow trail from Clarke’s thumb to her wrist, cutting her off. The sensation alone is almost enough to pull her into his head. 

She takes one look at his eager grin and refuses to give him the satisfaction. “It was later that year. I was fed up with art and hero work, and nothing could quiet the voices of the people around me. I lived further downtown—way busier, way louder. My choices were to exhaust myself by keeping my walls up or go crazy trying not to listen. Neither worked. So I grabbed my paints and splattered the suit. Now I just use it to cover up stains I can’t get out. Came in real handy last time I got stabbed.”

Clarke flashes Bellamy a triumphant smile. 

“Was that harder?” he asks, his eyes gleaming like he knows the answer.

“Why’d you do it?” 

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Was I right?” 

“Maybe.”

“Extra stimulation. Your skin is really sensitive, so I figured movement would be more distracting.” 

That’s not at all why Clarke was distracted. 

Bellamy’s hands are soft—softer than Clarke remembered them being. Of course, neither gloved hands nor grading papers lend themselves to callusing, but he doesn’t give the impression of someone with soft hands. Gentle, maybe, but not soft. 

“Fair enough,” Clarke manages, her throat dry. 

The smirk on Bellamy’s face is infuriatingly endearing. After the gallery, there was no point denying their attraction, but it’s never been outright acknowledged. What happened between them is a weight over their silences; something lingering at the edge of conversations. Clarke’s care for Bellamy has been weaponized against her in their months of fighting crime—as has his care for her—but that’s different from Bellamy himself weaponizing her attraction to him. 

“You’re—”

“An ass?” Bellamy smirks. “You’ve mentioned it a few times.” 

Sunlight catches on his glasses as a breeze from the window ruffles his hair, giving a boyish glow to his self-satisfied smile. Clarke remembers the first time she called him an ass—sparring in their warehouse, constantly at odds—and wonders what that Bellamy and Clarke would do if they saw themselves now.

Bellamy catches her eye and squeezes her hand, and she knows he’s thinking about it too. Bashful isn’t a word Clarke would use to describe Bellamy Blake, but the blush dusting his cheeks rings true to the word. Clarke can’t stifle her laugh. 

The door swings open, startling the two of them apart. Instinct takes over as Clarke tenses, ready for a fight. 

Wells stands in the doorway with an amused grin that brightens as his eyes dart between Bellamy and Clarke.

They’re still holding hands. 

Clarke rips her hand from Bellamy’s and hopes her face isn’t as red as it feels. Judging by the triumph in Wells’ eyes, her hope is poorly placed. She feels caught. 

Then she’s _ mad_. She’s an adult, and Wells is not in charge of her. 

Still, when she leaps off the couch to intercept him, she would rather run for the hills. 

Bellamy follows Clarke to the door, careful to give her and Wells space. Wells shoots a nod at Bellamy, who returns the gesture. It’s friendly enough. The tension in the room is either a blessing or a curse. Clarke figures she’ll decide when this ends. 

Seconds stretch like miles as Clarke and Wells stare at each other, a silent conversation flashing between them. 

He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening at Clarke’s blush. _ Oh, I am not letting this go. _

Clarke fixes her jaw. _ Fuck off. _

Wells opens his mouth, no doubt to say something embarrassing, so Clarke beats him to it. 

“It’s a hookup,” she hisses, hoping that sex will make him uncomfortable enough to leave it alone. It doesn’t.

“At three PM?” Wells asks. “While you hold hands and he makes you laugh?” 

“To each their own.”

“You haven’t stopped mentioning him since the gallery.”

Clarke crosses her arms and huffs, “Okay, that’s just a lie.” 

“Would you like an itemized list of every time you’ve said you’re busy seeing him? I can do chronological or alphabetical.” 

“I swear to god, I will kill you.” 

“Now that sounds like someone with something to hide,” Wells taunts, and Clarke short-circuits. 

Her heart stutters in her chest and she loses her edge, overwhelmed by the accusation that cuts too deep for such a light tone. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t mean it that way. 

But Clarke still can’t breathe. 

Before Wells pounces on the way Clarke stands frozen, Bellamy’s arm slides around her waist, his hand resting on her hip. His lips press against her temple, and it’s a brief touch, but warmth rushes through Clarke’s skin anyway. 

Bellamy flashes Wells a smile and says something that rumbles against Clarke’s shoulder but doesn’t register in her ears. Anxiety holds her body captive despite her efforts to soothe herself. 

The accusation held little weight. It was a friendly nudge, a jest. 

If only he knew all Clarke has to hide. 

Slowly, Bellamy’s hands bring her back. He squeezes her hip and risks a glance at her. 

Clarke leans into him, desperate to get to the present moment. 

“—but I never meant to take her away from you,” Bellamy finishes. He taps his fingers on Clarke’s hip. 

Wells stares at Clarke, doubt or hurt in his eyes at whatever story Bellamy fed him. Clarke isn’t sure which is worse. 

Clarke wrenches her gaze to Bellamy and is taken aback by the easy smile on his face as he lies. 

The reality of their height difference strikes Clarke often during battle, but never without adrenaline thrown into the mix. Just like when she gets knocked down on the street, Bellamy places himself between her and the danger. This may not be life or death, but Clarke appreciates it all the same. 

The doubt is gone from Wells’ eyes, leaving only hurt in its place. He wears a sad smile as his eyes flit from their faces to Clarke’s hip. 

She turns in Bellamy’s hold and rests a hand on his chest. “Could you give us a minute?” 

Bellamy nods and pulls away, his hand sliding across Clarke’s waist as he retreats to her bedroom. 

The air shifts with the click of the door. 

Wells clears his throat, struggling with his words. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

Clarke forces down the lump in her throat. “Of course.” 

“Then why didn’t you tell me about this?” He rushes to add, “I mean, you don’t owe me anything, but I thought… Well, we used to talk about these things. With Finn, and then Lexa—” Clarke shoots him a warning look. “Sorry. I’m happy for you, Clarke. I really am. You deserve someone you can lean on like that.” 

“I lean on you, too,” Clarke says, confused.

Wells shakes his head, his tone achingly kind. “But you don’t. And you haven’t for a while, and that’s okay as long as someone is there for you. I just—”

“Wells,” Clarke interrupts. “Bellamy has been in my life for a few months. You’ve been a part of who I am since before I can remember. I’ve been a little off balance lately, but I love you, okay? I’m so sorry.” 

“I love you, too,” Wells responds.

Clarke rushes forward and hugs Wells around the waist, a half-laugh escaping her when he tenses in surprise. His chin rests on her hair while his arms surround her, and the tension melts as they melt into each other. 

“No more secrets?” His voice lilts up, half-hope, half-joke. 

Clarke’s heart shatters in her chest. “No more secrets.” 

It’s a cruel thing to know the relief Wells gets from a promise Clarke can never keep. She shuts off her mind and pulls back. 

“I’ll let you two get back to your hookup,” Wells says. 

“We aren’t hooking up,” Clarke admits. That, at least, is a truth she can give him. 

“I know.” Wells winks and steps away, his hand on the door. “See you this week?” 

“Wednesday,” Clarke promises. “I’ll keep the whole day free for you.” 

“Wednesday,” Wells repeats with a smile. 

And then he’s gone. 

Clarke’s guard drops as the door shuts. She wraps her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to hold it together, but she didn’t expect this conversation to take such a toll. Out of all the times she’s lied to Wells, this feels the worst. 

She almost forgets about Bellamy hiding in her bedroom until she hears a soft knock from the inside. 

“All clear,” she calls. 

To his credit, he walks out looking worried. “How’d it go?” 

“What did you say to him?” Clarke demands. Bellamy stops in his tracks. “When I stopped, what did you say?” 

Bellamy examines her, trying to make sense of the onslaught of anger. “I hold him we were keeping things to ourselves until we figured out what we are—that we’re both private people and wanted to make sure this works before meeting each other’s friends.” 

“We don’t have friends.” 

“Wells only knows that _ you _ don’t have friends,” Bellamy counters. 

“I—” Clark blinks rapidly. “Fair.” 

Some fight leaves Clarke, but she’s desperate to avoid the crushing disappointment she knows will come after. 

“Why did you lie to him?” 

Bellamy raises an infuriatingly calm eyebrow. “Unless you plan on having sex, I’m pretty sure you lied too.” 

“That was different,” she insists. “Casual sex isn’t a big deal, especially since he was at the gallery. But a relationship? For two months?” 

“I never said relationship.” 

“It’s past casual sex, which means it’s too big for me to keep from my best friend.” 

“You froze, Clarke,” Bellamy says. “He said you had something to hide, and you _ froze_. I thought you could use the help.” 

“I don’t need your help!” Clarke snarls. “And sneaking up behind me like that? What would’ve happened if I got pulled into your head in front of Wells?” 

“You’ve had no problem with my touch at all today, and we’ve been working on this for weeks.” 

“That was different.” 

“Oh, really? Enlighten me.” 

“This wasn’t a hand on your arm, this was—” 

“It was you staying in your own head even when the door opened. Even when you saw Wells.” 

Clarke ignores his point. “You didn’t need to lie.” 

“Seems to me he thought the lie was more convincing.” His jaw ticks, and Clarke is irrationally satisfied by riling him up.

“Doesn’t mean you should’ve put me in that position.” 

Bellamy gives her a long look and crosses his arms. “You done?” 

Clarke opens and closes her mouth, floundering for a reason to stay angry.

Bellamy shifts his weight and gives her a look. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do you just want a punching bag?” 

The fight rushes out of Clarke. He’s right, and while part of her hates him for it and wants to fight, she knows she’s being unfair. All she does is nod and start walking. Bellamy’s footsteps fill the silent room as Clarke all but throws herself on the couch.

He stands to the side, studying her as she hugs her legs to her chest. He doesn’t sit until she pats the cushion next to her. Clarke tries to ignore all the unused space around them.

“How much did you hear?” she asks.

“I didn’t listen,” Bellamy answers. She believes him. 

Clarke closes her eyes and sucks in a breath. _ This _ is what Wells meant; she _ is _leaning on Bellamy, and she’s doing it in a way she’s never let herself lean on Wells. 

“I hate lying to him,” she sighs. 

“You’re doing it to protect him.” Bellamy searches her face, his tone soft. 

“I know.” Clarke tightens her arms around her legs. “But he gives me _ everything,_ Bellamy. He never lies, and I can’t do the same for him, you know?” 

“Actually, I don’t. O and my mom always knew, but no one else… Just white lies, little stuff in conversation. No one important enough for it to hurt.”

Clarke schools her reaction, knowing an ounce of pity will shut him down. He gives that piece of himself to her, and she’s afraid to do or say anything that might make him take it back. 

But all she can think about is how lonely of a life that must be. 

“I can’t imagine doing this alone,” is all she says. 

“You have for a long time,” he points out. 

_ Not like that. _ “It’s different.” She takes in his intense brown eyes, the way his arm rests near her on the cushion. For once it’s a comfort to have someone else in her space. “Now I don’t have to be.” 

Clarke’s hands fidget, so she presses her palms together, her thumb stroking the same path Bellamy’s did earlier: a reminder. 

* * *

It starts the way these things always do: slow-moving patrol, rooftop conversation, and a scream in Clarke’s mind that interrupts both. Only one thing is different:

“The telepath,” Clarke pants. 

“How are you sure?” Bellamy asks, all sunlit grit and determination. 

“No time. Trust me.” 

And they’re off. 

The call of the scream resonates at a different frequency. Instead of a prickle at the back of Clarke’s neck, it tugs at her insides, bouncing off the walls of Clarke’s mind like it’s trying to pick up a signal. 

Bellamy stays at Clarke’s heels as they weave through alleyways to find the girl, resolution rolling off him in waves. 

They stop in an alley littered with debris. Trash litters the concrete and walls like it exploded from trash bags, which, given the black plastic among the mess, it might’ve. 

Bellamy and Clarke exchange a look. There was a fight here. 

The scream is louder, piercing the air from the next alley over. They race to it.

A young girl cowers under a dumpster, defending herself against the man trying to reach her. Her telekinesis is slow and choppy, not at all effective in keeping her attacker away. 

Bellamy swears beside Clarke. “Son of a bitch. Murphy!” he roars. The fury in his voice makes Clarke shiver. 

Murphy hauls himself off the concrete to glare at Bellamy. “Nero.” His gaze flickers to Clarke. “Still with The Psyren, huh? Thought she would’ve ditched you after the bullet fiasco.” He says it like they didn’t save him and Emori from capture or death. 

He’s a different man now, head high and posture aloof. This man is a survivor, and he knows he’s unbreakable. 

“What are you doing here?” Bellamy growls. 

“What’s it to you?” 

“What do you want with her?” 

Murphy’s sneer turns gleeful. “Oh, haven’t you heard? Alpha is coughing up big bucks for telepaths. If I give them Charlotte here, they’ll leave me off the registry.” 

Bellamy stiffens and shifts his shoulder in front of Clarke’s. “Does Emori know about this?” 

Murphy scoffs. “Don’t talk about her like you know her.” 

“Answer me.” 

Murphy raises his chin. “She knows. The deal is I give them a telepath and they leave us off the registry long enough for us to get the fuck out of Arkadia.” His eyes gleam with something decidedly dangerous. “And now there are two.” 

Bellamy takes a full step forward, casting a shadow over Clarke in the low light of the setting sun. Anger radiates from him, and his fingers flirt with the handle of his knife before closing into a fist.

“What’re you gonna do?” Murphy laughs. “Punch an unbreakable man?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes and steps out of Bellamy’s shadow, planting her feet on the concrete across from Murphy. His smile dims. 

With a jerk of her head, Clarke tosses Murphy to the floor, dragging him across the concrete before throwing him up on the wall. He dangles above the alley, visibly afraid for the first time all evening. 

“So is it just your skin that’s unbreakable, Murphy?” she calls. “If I drop you, will your bones break?” He doesn’t respond. “Or do you need a little more _ pressure? _” She squeezes his lungs, expelling enough air to leave him gasping. 

Her mind returns to Charlotte under the dumpster. Bellamy stands guard beside it, his eyes fixed on Clarke and blazing with something Clarke hasn’t seen since, well. The gallery. 

Murphy clatters to the pavement. Guess his bones are as unbreakable as the rest of him. 

“You want a telepath?” Clarke crosses her arms and juts out her chin. “You’ve got one.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation between Murphy rising and turning tail for the street. He draws himself up and examines Clarke with a glare resembling respect, then disappears into the mass of bodies on the sidewalk. Clarke considers tracking him until she hears sneakers scuffling against the pavement.

Charlotte struggles to her feet, the only sign of harm being the wild, hunted look in her eyes. She notices the knife glittering on Bellamy’s thigh and shrinks away. 

“Hey,” Clarke says gently, holding out a hand and walking to Bellamy’s side. Fear grips Charlotte’s body like a vice—she’s only just a teenager, if at all. “Do you know who we are?” 

Charlotte shrinks and shakes her head.

“We’re here to protect you,” Bellamy says, the gritty disguise gone. His tone is soft, gentle, true to who he is. He crouches to her level. “We fight the people who are after you. She’s a telepath, too.” He nods at Clarke.

“I noticed,” Charlotte huffs, but her eyes meet Clarke’s fleetingly. It’s a small victory. 

“Do you have any family? Anywhere to go?” Clarke asks.

Charlotte stiffens. “No.” 

Clarke’s eyes dart to the setting sun, then to Bellamy’s face. His mask can’t hide how his eyes flash. Clarke is certain he’s as reluctant to leave Charlotte as she is. 

They nod, and Clarke crouches beside him, offering Charlotte her hand. “Come with us.” 

Charlotte stares at Clarke’s hand like a live bomb. “You don’t want me to touch you,” she warns.

Clarke smiles. “I can keep you out, I promise. Don’t worry.” 

Their hands meet: Charlotte’s fingers brushing Clarke’s gloved ones. Charlotte’s consciousness is nothing more than a pebble tossed at the fortress of Clarke’s mind. Nothing happens. 

Ever cautious, Bellamy motions toward the alley. The three set off in silence, unwilling to draw attention to two telepaths and the most wanted man in Arkadia walking side by side. Less fear emanates from Charlotte as her energy shifts to something closer to comfort. Clarke’s heart breaks at the thought of finding comfort in being whisked away by masked strangers. What kind of life is this kid living? 

She’s very much a kid; Clarke can gather that. With her soft cheeks and small voice, she can’t be over twelve. Clarke thinks of who she was at twelve and tries to put herself in Charlotte’s shoes. 

She can’t. Clarke didn’t have powers at twelve—most metas don’t. The only meta Clarke knows of with powers that young is Octavia, and she doesn’t have the heart to ask Bellamy how that’s possible. For Charlotte to have called out to Clarke—for Charlotte to have _ killed someone _—she must have undergone some serious trauma. 

That thought sticks with Clarke. In her instinct to protect Charlotte, she forgot the reason Bellamy was looking for her in the first place. 

They stop at the backdoor of their old warehouse, the building looming above. Worn brick stands out against the windows, several of which are broken. To an onlooker, it must look like a strong breeze would blow it over, but Clarke knows that any building she and Bellamy can spar in is structurally sound. 

Bellamy rips the padlock off the door. “We’re here.” 

“I could’ve gotten that,” Clarke huffs. 

“You can lock it if you want,” he says. 

Clarke opens her mouth to argue, but she does. The lock molds into place behind them with a satisfying click. Even the places Bellamy’s fingers dented it are fixed. 

Charlotte’s eyes light up. “Could you teach me to do that?” 

“Slow down, kid,” Clarke says lightly. “We’ve got some stuff to figure out first.” 

Charlotte sobers then, her eyes downcast. “Sorry.” 

Clarke squeezes her hand. “It’s okay.” 

Bellamy’s voice echoes from deeper in the warehouse. “Over here.” 

The only light to guide them comes from the last few rays of sunset. Tall walls tower hauntingly without the mid-afternoon sun filtering through the windows, the brick glowing a warm red as opposed to its current blue-brown. The whole place looks like a bruise. 

Bellamy stands in the middle of the room they once sparred in, his gaze fixed on a dark patch splattered on the concrete.

Clarke peels away from Charlotte to rest her hand on Bellamy’s stomach—just above where the stitches he received in this very spot were—and pulls him back to the present. 

His head swivels pointedly around the room, calling attention to the supplies scattered from when they left in a hurry all those months ago. They were careless, and so lucky nobody has found this scene with Bellamy’s DNA dried on the cement. 

“Do you guys live here?” Charlotte asks, unimpressed.

“No,” Clarke responds. “It’s…” She turns to Bellamy. 

“An old hideout,” he finishes. 

_ Where we planned out how to find you for weeks, _ Clarke thinks. The thought surprises her with the realization that Charlotte has made no move to get into Clarke’s head, or Bellamy’s for that matter. She must have gained some control over her powers since she went too far. 

Charlotte yawns, her shoulders slumping as the fight drains from her. Her stiffness looked like second nature until now. Now Clarke recognizes it for the burden it is. 

Bellamy finds a pack in the corner and offers it to Charlotte. 

“Here, get some rest. You can use this as a pillow.” 

Charlotte’s hand hovers over it. 

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” he promises. 

She must believe him, because she curls up facing the opposite wall without a word. Decent rest must be a distant memory after months on the run.

Bellamy slides down the wall and beckons Clarke towards him. She settles next to him, desperate to talk about Charlotte. 

They wait in unspoken agreement until Clarke nods, feeling Charlotte’s mind slow as she sleeps. Theoretically, Clarke could dive in and get some background, but it feels wrong. She’s gone through enough today; the last thing Clarke wants to do is wake her by invading her privacy. 

“How does she have powers so young?” Bellamy breathes. “What happened to her?” 

“You didn’t know?” 

“That she was a kid? No. I never saw her, just heard things. This somehow makes it worse.”

“She said she doesn’t have a family,” Clarke says. 

And that hangs over the room—all the ways a girl can lose her parents. Clarke looks at her lap and remembers the pain of losing her father, the aching uncertainty of it all. 

“Bellamy?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Who did she kill?” 

Bellamy sucks in a sharp breath. “A meta on the street. I don’t know his name. He was trying to help her, but he grabbed her hand without warning, and…”

“God.” 

“I know,” Bellamy sighs. “Speaking of.” He pulls off his glove and offers Clarke his bare hand.

Clarke narrows her eyes. “Now?” 

“She looks like she’ll be out for a while. And personally, I’m not looking for a repeat of what happened to the other guy.” 

Clarke takes off her glove and slips her palm into his. Together they work to strengthen Bellamy’s defenses as the moon rises. The room has a ghostly glow to it, silver light beaming on the high points of Bellamy’s rigid armor. Despite not being able to see much of his face, Clarke can read him. At some point in the last few months, she became as attuned to Bellamy as she is to Wells. 

Clarke remembers she’s on offense and wipes that thought from her brain, lest she send it into Bellamy’s. But her mind fills with thoughts of him, especially the heat in his gaze as Clarke threw Murphy on the wall, the way his eyes blazed with pride and hunger. 

If they were doing this for Clarke’s benefit, she’d pull her hand back to deal with this. But this is for Bellamy, to protect him against Charlotte’s chaos, so she shoves it down. 

Charlotte’s scream pierces the quiet air, panic and pain bouncing off the walls of the warehouse.

“No! NO!” she cries, thrashing on the floor. 

Bellamy is halfway to Charlotte before Clarke knows what’s happening. He kneels beside her, gripping her shoulders to wake her. 

“Charlotte, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a dream,” he says. 

Charlotte panics at Bellamy’s proximity, at the sharp shadows of the mask. Bellamy sees her terror and tears off his helmet, exposing his face. 

Charlotte presses herself against the wall like a cornered animal. Without Clarke’s hand on his shoulder, Bellamy would follow, but the kid needs some space. 

Clarke crouches next to Bellamy and removes her mask too. Bellamy’s eyes are on Charlotte, but he squeezes Clarke’s knee in silent thanks. 

“You’re safe, Charlotte. It’s just a dream.”

“It’s not,” she sobs. “I see them every night, and then I wake up, and—” She’s cut off by a new round of tears. 

“Who?” Bellamy asks. “Who do you see?” 

“They break down my door and try to take my parents, but they won’t come. And I’m just hiding in the closet while they— And they kill them for it. Then I wake up, and I see the tower, and they’re on the street, and the news, and I can’t. I can’t do it.” 

“Charlotte…” Bellamy reaches for her hand. 

She sees his bare fingers and recoils. “No! I’ll hurt you! I can’t—”

Bellamy pulls Charlotte into his arms without hesitation. Charlotte only cries harder and attempts to writhe out of his grip. His bare hand cradles her neck, skin on skin, and she weakens. 

Clarke keeps her hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, her fingertips pressed into the side of his neck as a precaution. She has faith in Bellamy’s abilities, but figures she can’t be too cautious around such high emotions. If Charlotte loses control, Clarke will be there to protect Bellamy. 

Slowly the fear fades from Charlotte’s voice, and her crying stutters. Her hands stop pushing Bellamy away and instead clutch at his shoulders. Once he’s sure she’s okay, Bellamy scoops Charlotte into his lap, tucking her face into his neck. She clings to him like a lifeline. Clarke wonders if the night Charlotte’s parents died was the last time anyone touched her. It occurs to her that she and Bellamy might be the only people capable of doing so. 

“You’re safe,” Bellamy repeats, stroking Charlotte’s hair. The girl deflates with one last sob. 

“I’m scared,” she sniffles into Bellamy’s neck. 

“That’s okay. It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared all the time. But you can’t let fear or hurt change who you are, okay? You’re a good person, Charlotte.” 

“You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done.” 

“I don’t need to.” His voice breaks. “You’re _ so _ young.” 

Clarke slides her fingers to the back of his neck, carding them through his hair to tell him she’s there. He leans into her touch for the briefest second, and she knows he knows. 

“You can be better than the things you’ve done. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but there are people you haven’t met yet who need you. People you’ll love.” 

“Did you meet them?” Charlotte asks.

Bellamy looks at Clarke. “Yeah, I did.”

His words calm Charlotte into finally relaxing, but they have Clarke’s heart beating fast. 

Maybe it was just to comfort the kid crying in his arms. Maybe he didn’t mean any of it. 

But Clarke remembers how his face changed when she said she needed him; she knows how much a person like Bellamy needs to be needed. 

Charlotte seems more childlike than ever curled up in Bellamy’s arms. Her eyes flutter closed with increasing frequency as he strokes her hair. 

He can’t see her face, but Clarke can. Her eyes screw shut like she’s in pain, but it’s pain that comes from utter relief—the pain of putting down a burden you’ve held for too long. 

The two sit there clinging to each other, and Clarke gets the feeling Bellamy needs this as much as Charlotte. 

“She’s asleep,” Bellamy whispers after Charlotte exhales a puff of breath. 

He shifts her so the moonlight hits her pale skin, and sure enough, her eyes are closed. She looks peaceful. 

“I don’t want to let her go,” he says. 

Clarke runs her hand over his neck. “Holding her through sleep is dangerous. Physical contact is one thing when she’s awake and holding back, but it’s not safe when she’s asleep.”

Bellamy nods like he knew the answer and lays Charlotte down, taking care to rest her head on the pack. 

“Will you keep an eye on her?” He taps his temple and gestures to Charlotte. “Make she’s she doesn’t have—”

“Yeah.” Clarke puts her hand on Bellamy’s. “I got her.” 

They retreat to the opposite wall to monitor the entrance as well as Charlotte. The street is quiet, and Clarke reckons it’s well past midnight. Thank goodness it’s a weekend, or Bellamy would have to leave for lecture first thing in the morning. 

His gaze is fixed on Charlotte. “How are we going to protect her?” 

“I could take her in,” Clarke offers. “It’s not like she’s in the system or anything. I could show her the videos with my dad, teach her how to use her powers. I work from home most days, anyway. Might be a squeeze financially, but I could make it work.”

He clears his throat. “If money is an issue, I could help. Or take her myself.” 

“You can’t touch her.” 

“I just did,” he huffs.

“For a few minutes. What if she loses control and I’m not there?” 

“I’ll practice with her like I do with you.” 

Clarke softens. “That’s different. I can pull back.”

“Murphy is looking for her. That means Alpha is too.” 

“I could hide her.” 

Bellamy’s voice lowers. “I won’t let another kid grow up the way my sister did.”

“I don’t see a way around that,” Clarke says.

“We just have to double down on stopping them.”

“We’re as doubled down as we can be without walking through the front door,” Clarke hisses. “But we could keep her safe in the meantime. Or try, at least. One slip up and they’d be on our front doors in no time.” 

“I’d like to see them try,” Bellamy growls. 

“We both live in apartments, and living in an apartment is hard for a telepath. Something could easily go wrong.”

“Then let me take her if you’re so sure something will go wrong.” 

“I have to be there if something happens. She killed the last person who tried to help her, Bellamy!” 

Clarke doesn’t realize how much their conversation escalated until those last words fill the warehouse. Charlotte is still asleep when Clarke checks. 

Bellamy sounds softer now, more understanding. He’s armored, but unmasked; protected, but vulnerable to her.

“Why do they want telepaths?” 

The tension leaves the room and is replaced by fear. “I have some theories.” 

“Shoot.”

“They have someone who won’t give up information they need. They need to find someone—or multiple someones. They want me dead, specifically. My mom figured it out and wants to take me in without scandal—” 

“Point taken,” Bellamy says. Clarke hears his silent request: _ let’s not talk about you dying. _

He rests his head against the cold brick to eye Clarke, who feels all too seen.

“She reminds me of you.”

Clarke furrows her brow at him. “Who, Charlotte?”

“Yeah.” A sad but fond smile settles on his face. “Young telepath. Lost her family. Won’t let anyone touch her.”

Clarke stares at the ground and says nothing. 

In the corner of her eye, she watches Bellamy’s hand shift towards her. It’s a silent offering, just subtle enough to ignore. No matter how much Clarke wants to take it, sleep tugs at her mind. It’s not safe to touch. 

“I’ll take the first shift,” he offers, sensing her hesitation. His hand falls to his thigh, rejected. 

Clarke fights the urge to press up against him. “Bellamy?” she breathes. “Did you mean what you said?” 

His voice is closer this time. “About what, Princess?”

Clarke smiles at that—_Princess_. He hasn’t used that nickname since he spat it at her after the gallery. His mouth wraps around the word differently now; it’s softer, fonder. 

“About the people you meet…” She fights to stay awake. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.” 

* * *

Clarke wakes to morning light streaming through the broken warehouse window. Her neck aches from a strange angle, her muscles tight as she straightens with a groan. Whatever she leaned on last night was—

Bellamy. She slept on Bellamy’s shoulder. His head rested on top of hers, now jolting forward in her absence. 

He blinks the sleep from his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face. The ungloved hand. On his unmasked face. 

Panic sets in as his eyes fix across the room.

“She’s gone,” he says, horrified.

“We’ll find her,” Clarke assures him, already withdrawing to find Charlotte. 

“God, she must’ve heard us talking. This is my fault. I fell asleep on watch.” 

Clarke doesn’t go under, instead catching Bellamy’s hand in her own. “It’s not your fault. I’ll find her.” 

Only when Clarke goes under, she can’t find Charlotte anywhere. It’s like she wiped herself off the map, or at least Arkadia.

“Maybe she made it out of the city.”

“Clarke.”

“Maybe she heard us talking about Alpha and got the hell out of here.” 

“Clarke, can you not find her?!” 

“Not yet, but—” 

Bellamy stiffens. “Isn’t that what happens when someone dies?” 

“No,” Clarke insists. “She’s _ not _dead.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I’d feel it. Please, just—” she takes Bellamy’s hand again— “Just trust me. She’s out there, I just can’t find her. Maybe she shut me out.” 

“She isn’t strong enough.” 

“Maybe not, but she isn’t dead, Bellamy.” 

He searches Clarke’s face desperately, and she tries to channel a sense of peace through their linked hands. 

“We should clean up here, just in case,” he says. 

Clarke pulls everything to the center of the room in an instant, desperate to get Bellamy somewhere less likely to set him off. In moments, their things are gathered and the bloodstain is gone. 

“She’s going to be okay.”

“I hope so. Otherwise I’ll kill Murphy.” There’s a reluctance that tells Clarke Bellamy blames himself more. His shoulders sag with the burden he assigns himself.

“We’ll find her,” Clarke promises, and it sounds like a lie even then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **You're like a mirror, reflecting me**  
**Takes one to know one, so take it from me**  
**You've been lonely**  
**You've been lonely, too long**  

> 
> I have no excuse for how ridiculously soft this chapter is, but I feel like nobody is going to complain. (You might hate me in ch 7).  
You might have noticed that the tags have changed! I realized the character who is dying, while a major player, isn't really a major character. Hopefully that'll bring some readers who were afraid I'd kill Bellamy or Clarke (I would sooner die myself).  
Wild to think that this fic is almost halfway over! Sorry for my inconsistent posting, but I have a feeling it'll get more frequent as s7 kicks up and I get in my feelings about Bellarke. I've never been more excited and terrified.  
Song for this chapter is Dust to Dust // The Civil Wars 


	7. hate to see your heart break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm only honest when it rains**  
**An open book with a torn out page**  
**And my inks run out**  
**I wanna love you but I don't know how**  


For the first time Clarke can remember, walking the street in a tank top is a leisure she can afford. The turning point of spring coaxes her out of her jackets and long sleeves, and her practice with Bellamy dares her to take to the crowded sidewalks with her walls down and arms exposed. Strangers brush by, and Clarke hardly spares them a thought. 

Bellamy’s smile is downright radiant, as warm as the rays of fading sunlight on Clarke’s skin. Together they wander the golden-soaked streets of Arkadia without pretense or a destination. 

Originally the idea was to plan for ways to track Charlotte as well as a coming mission over dinner at Bellamy’s place, but the open window brought a warm breeze neither of them could ignore. When Clarke looked at Bellamy to suggest going out, he already had a matching spark in his eyes. 

Clarke gets shouldered a few times in the foot traffic, but she’s more enthusiastic than irritated. It’s been so long since she could go outside without worrying about staying in her own head; trips into the city have always exhausted her, becoming something to avoid unless Wells stole her off her couch. Now it’s nearly second nature. 

But she still needs practice, if the prickle behind her right eye is any indication. Or water. It’s entirely possible she’s just dehydrated. 

Clarke pushes the twinge aside and follows Bellamy down the sidewalk, making a show of knocking her shoulder against his for the sake of it. He responds with a good-natured shove of his own and one of Clarke’s favorite smiles—the light-hearted kind that answers her goofiness: endeared and fake-annoyed all at once. 

Still, the prickle in Clarke’s head crescendos to a full throb as they walk. Another block and it’s a stabbing pain. 

They pass a lounge/club-type building with music bleeding through each swing of the door despite the early evening hour. Several bouncers loom on either side. 

Clarke’s vision goes white. 

She stumbles blindly into Bellamy, who shields her from passersby and ushers her to safety. The city pays them no mind as he rushes her back the way they came—it’s seen stranger things. 

Cool glass presses against Clarke’s back, and she comes to in the entryway of a closed shop. Bellamy’s warmth radiates inches from Clarke’s front, his palm firm on her shoulder, his thumb on her neck. 

“You okay?” he asks a bit frantically. “We can go back to your place if this side of town is too loud.” He glances at her exposed arms, then the busy sidewalk. “Fuck, I didn’t bring a jacket—” 

Clarke nudges his hand off. “I’m fine, but you can’t grab me when I go under. If I get pulled into—” 

“Tell me it didn’t help,” Bellamy interrupts. “Tell me it didn’t help and I swear I won’t, but I’m not going to have you follow my voice on a street full of strangers if I can do more.” 

Clarke considers her surroundings and finds she can’t argue. She rests her hand on his chest in apology and presses the heel of the other to her eye. 

“Something is wrong back there,” she says. 

“The club?” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s always busy. Was it the amount of people?” 

“Have you ever been inside?” 

“You’re the one who teases me about never going out. Which, by the way, is remarkably hypocritical.” 

“_Okay._” Clarke rolls her eyes. “But that’s not a big building. I can do crowds, especially if I’m not physically in one. Passing the building shouldn’t be a problem—it shouldn’t hurt unless people are hurting inside.”

He frowns. “What are you saying?” 

“Let’s pass by again. I want to see if I can find anything out.” 

Bellamy doesn’t budge, reluctance and worry in the stiff lines of his body. 

Clarke laces their fingers. “Will you ground me?” she asks, knowing it’s her only shot at getting him to agree. 

For a moment, Bellamy just stares at Clarke, and she fears he’s set in his decision. But in one smooth motion he spins her out from the wall and tucks her under his arm, their hands coming to her waist and pressing her into his side. Clarke’s head dizzies from the proximity before she remembers why he’s doing this. 

“I got you,” he promises. 

The pain creeps in faster this time. Clarke keeps her walls down, trusting Bellamy to keep her centered. Her mind floods with visions—a cage, screaming onlookers, aching muscles, and blood. 

Bellamy’s voice is rough in her ear. “I’m taking you home.” 

Clarke finds herself in a family bathroom, planted in the middle of the room with Bellamy holding her waist and cheek. In theory, she could step back to collect herself, maybe note the clink of cups and bustle of conversation and realize that they made it to the coffee shop a few blocks away. She doesn’t. She just stands there and tries to ignore Bellamy’s hands burning into her skin. 

“No,” she says. “Something is going on in that club. I have to find out what.” 

Bellamy’s grip tightens. “Clarke.” 

“How did we get here?” She takes a pointed look at his hands on her. “Did anyone see us?”

The hand on her cheek leaves to scrub over Bellamy’s face. “You looked like you were having a panic attack, so the barista ushered me back here.” He smooths a strand of hair from her cheek. “You can’t see yourself, Clarke. Your eyes go blank and—” 

“People are getting hurt, Bellamy. I have to stop it.” 

He sucks in a measured breath. “Yeah, and we will _ another day. _ We can suit up and make a plan.” 

“And leave how many people to die in the meantime? How are you okay with that?” 

“Of course I’m not okay with that, but I’m _ less _ okay with _ you _dying!” The words echo off the bathroom tile, and Bellamy winces at the volume. He softens, still sure of himself. “We don’t even know what we’re walking into. Clarke, please think with your head.” 

Clarke steps back then, refusing to acknowledge the pang at the loss of touch. “You know that’s all I do.” 

“Oh, like charging into a place you can’t even walk past?” he snaps.

“I’ll put up my walls and be fine.”

“And if you have to use your powers?” 

Clarke raises her chin. “Then I’ll deal with it.” 

Bellamy steps back into her space and cups her cheeks, turning desperate. “Alpha is looking for telepaths. You can’t afford to be stupid—”

“So wanting to save people is stupid?!” 

“If it gets you killed or means you walk right into their hands, then yes. Stupid bravery is still stupid.” 

“That’s rich coming from you.” 

For once, Bellamy doesn’t fire back. He just holds her face, studies her with those deep brown eyes, and swallows thickly. 

“I won’t let you die.”

Clarke sits in the discomfort of his sincerity and swallows the lump in her throat. “I can’t let anyone get hurt knowing I can stop it.” 

“Do you _ know _you can stop it?” 

“I’m going, Bellamy.” 

“Enough with this ‘I’ shit—” Clarke raises her hands, but Bellamy catches them. “We’re partners. If I can’t stop you, I’m coming with you.” 

Clarke stares at him, trying to slow her pulse as it races under his fingertips.

“Like hell I’m letting you go in there alone,” he continues like she might protest. “We go together, or I swear to god I will throw you over my shoulder and lock you in my apartment.” 

“You know I could stop you,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it. 

“Good thing we’re on the same team then.” His eyes dart to their joined hands, and he steps back when he realizes she’s not running out on him. “What did you see?” 

Clarke tries not to miss his proximity and launches into an explanation of the overwhelming pain and despair she witnessed. After some mild back and forth about a plan of action, they venture back to the coffee shop. Bellamy waves his thanks to the kind-eyed barista, who smiles and glances at Clarke. 

Clarke wonders if she and Bellamy might be here under different circumstances if they were anyone else: still hand in hand as they are now, but as two people meeting for a late night tea instead of walking into some underground death trap down the block. Bellamy smoothing his thumb over Clarke’s knuckles and smiling at her in the warm yellow light would mean something other than a small comfort in the face of the unknown. Or maybe it’s the unknown that’s changed—the more intimate side of their relationship could be the daunting challenge instead of the bloody scene they’re charging into. 

The moment they hit the street, Clarke misses the freedom she’d witnessed minutes before, snatched away from her before she could properly explore it. With her walls up, the warmth of Bellamy’s hand in hers doesn’t quite penetrate her skin like it once did. Even the sun lingering above the skyline looks dimmer, the orange and pink clouds a bit more muted. Clarke falls back into the habit of walking through the world with her eyes forward. Though she’s relieved not to ache as they approach the club, she longs for the colorful sky and everything else she never realized she was missing.

An absolute wall of a man stands guard outside the club, his arms rippling as he sizes up Bellamy. He doesn’t spare Clarke a glance, and she’s almost grateful. 

“Password?” he growls.

Bellamy squares his shoulders and opens his mouth, but Clarke squeezes his hand and dives into the bouncer’s mind. Determined to enter this club, she fights through the agony that floods her brain as her walls lower. Her grip on Bellamy’s hand could break fingers.

She pulls back and injects confidence into her voice. “Osleya.” 

It makes no fucking sense to Clarke, but she stands her ground as the bouncer eyes her. The password is right. 

Reluctantly, the bouncer stands to the side. Bellamy pulls Clarke past the moment the path is clear, keeping her close and hidden from view. 

They take in the scene inside: a bar crowded with familiar patrons, a lounge buzzing with tense conversation, and hazy blue light painting the place in harsh shadows. It’s a different world from the sunset and busy streets beyond the door. Something is off. 

Clarke spots a man playing pool flick his wrist just before the trajectory of his opponent’s ball tragically changes, winning him the game. Another hunches over a sweating drink at the bar and blows into it, and the glass frosts as the ice refreezes. By the time Clarke watches a woman change her hair color at whim, she’s certain. 

“Everyone here is a meta,” she whispers to Bellamy. 

His brow crinkles like he’s coming to that conclusion as well. Clarke shoots him a look that says _ trust me _ before setting out for the man at the bar. 

Bellamy catches her arm and pulls her back. Her nose hits his chest, which he apologizes for, but he keeps her close. 

“You’re already getting looks, Princess. I’m willing to bet that bouncer recognized you.”

She frowns up at him and replays the way Bellamy’s body covered hers as they entered the building. “Maybe because of my art?” 

He smiles at that, his cheeks dimpling in amusement before his eyes harden at someone across the room. “The people here don’t exactly pay attention to contemporary art. This is my side of town, remember?” 

Clarke watches Bellamy’s gaze travel and shifts to see whoever he’s staring down, but he stops her with an arm around her shoulders. Only a few inches of space separate their chests. It’s a possessive move—deliberate. 

The staring contest must end seconds after, because he relaxes. “If this place is full of metas, you aren’t safe. They’re more likely to know you from your mother than your art.” 

“You sound like you have a plan.” Clarke’s voice lilts at the end like a question.

“Act like a couple? You can hide your face like this and whisper instead of having to jump in my head, that way you don’t have to take your walls down.” Bellamy swallows. “Unless you can think of a better idea.”

Clarke can’t. 

She’s still as Bellamy’s arm slides to her waist, hesitant, like he’s asking permission. Clarke shakes off the pounding in her chest and closes the space between them, pressing her face to the hollow of his neck. 

“See the man at the bar with the long hair?” she asks.

Bellamy shifts to check, taking Clarke with him as he turns. His voice rumbles against her cheek when he asks, “Leather jacket and a beard?” 

“That’s the one. I’ve got a good feeling about him.” And he could question her intuition—he has before—but he trusts her and moves to occupy the empty seat next to their target. 

Bellamy sidles up to the bar, leans on a stool, and asks for a drink with Clarke in tow. She does her best to appear drunk, standing between his legs and hiding her face with a giggle. Nothing makes people look away quite like PDA. 

A cool demeanor settles over Bellamy as he slides his elbow on the counter top and nods at the man. “So, where’s the action around here?” 

The man chuckles behind Clarke, who resists the urge to groan. She hears the clink of his drink on the counter as he shifts in his seat. His voice is deep with a rasp that chills Clarke’s spine, but it’s light with amusement when he responds, “That’s one hell of a way to say you’re looking for a third.” 

Bellamy chokes while Clarke outright laughs, the sound becoming a yelp when Bellamy tugs her close with a hand in her back pocket. The warmth surrounding him replaces the chill radiating from the man behind her. 

There’s no way to get a full read on this stranger, but Clarke senses general amusement directed their way. He’s not suspicious. She gives Bellamy a nudge. 

“We’re just looking to get downstairs.”

Clarke would give anything to see the stranger’s face in the tense silence that follows. 

“Go home,” he growls. 

Bellamy tenses. “We can’t.” 

The man tosses back his drink and sets it down a little too hard. “And why do you think the rest of us are here? For sport?” 

“All I know is why I’m here,” Bellamy says. “I’ll ask someone else if you won’t—” 

The man grabs Bellamy’s arm from the counter. “Look man. Get your girl somewhere safe and come back another time.” 

“She goes where I go.” 

“You want her like _ that _her first time going in?” 

“I’m going in for both of us,” Bellamy feigns. 

“You must be quite the fighter if they’ll let you get away with that shit,” the man scoffs. 

Bellamy raises his chin and stays stoically silent. 

Clarke slips her hand to his neck and breathes in his ear. “He’s calling your bluff.”

His right arm withdraws deliberately from Clarke and he holds it out. Clarke hears their palms meet, feels their brief shake, hears the man wince behind her as Bellamy squeezes. 

“Point taken,” the man says. “There’s a stairwell opposite the bathrooms. I assume you have the password?” 

Clarke nods into Bellamy’s neck, and he responds for them. 

She backs up as Bellamy rises and is shocked to find ice-blue eyes boring into her own. The man’s face, which she hadn’t seen before, is scarred with twin crescent moons curving above his eyes and along his cheekbones. 

“Good luck,” he tells her. He says it like they’ll need it.

Together, Clarke and Bellamy make their way to the stairwell. Clarke gets the password without a hitch, though she gets some funny looks when she carries on the drunk act. The moment they disappear down the stairwell, Bellamy stops, checks both directions, and sighs. 

“I miss the suit,” he admits. “There’s something reassuring about knowing people will kill you on sight instead of praying they don’t.” His gaze flits over Clarke and settles on her hair, which he messes up determinedly.

She attempts to smooth it down. “What the hell?” 

“Acting drunk won’t fly down there if _ that _was any indication.” He jerks his head toward the top of the stairwell and mussing Clarke’s hair until it covers half her face. “That’s better.” 

“So sex hair is more believable than being drunk? We’re coming from a bar.” 

Bellamy’s eyes dart down her body, and he opens his mouth—

And then they hear it: thunderous applause and echoing jeers devolving into cacophony. The sound waves amplify with each step they bounce off of before hitting Clarke’s ears. 

One look and they fly down the steps hand in hand. 

The stairwell dumps them outside a caged arena. People stand around the fence, crowded to the barrier like sardines. The stench of blood assaults Clarke’s nose, and hundreds of screaming thoughts pound on her skull. Even with her walls up, pain radiates from every corner of this place. 

In the center of the arena, a victor towers over a dead body.

“Silence.” 

The voice booms over the crowd, hushing them with a fierce raspiness that almost sounds serpentine. Bellamy freezes beside Clarke.

“Who’s next?” 

It’s definitely feminine. Still, silence grips the crowd like a cold hand, its fingers squeezing the life out of the room—not that there was much to begin with. 

A blur of red flashes past the fence opposite Bellamy and Clarke, and dread settles into Clarke’s very bones. 

Octavia Blake stands tall in the center of the ring, her head high and face painted with something that looks too much like blood. Clarke wonders if it’s someone else’s or her own. She isn’t sure which thought makes her sicker. 

Bellamy moves to call out, but Clarke senses his inhale and slaps her hand over his mouth. With every ounce of strength her body has to offer, she tries to push him back the direction they came. He is unmoving. 

“Bellamy, don’t.”

He looks at her with unspeakable anguish. “You know I have to.” 

Clarke chokes down a sob as a few heads turn their way. “She said she’d kill you. Look at her and tell me she wouldn’t. You told me not to be stupid, so listen to yourself. Think with your head. _ Please_.” 

“She’s family.”

Clarke clutches his face, rising onto her toes to look him in the eyes. Her voice cracks as she begs. “Please don’t do this. If you want a family, I’ll be that for you, okay? Just stay with me.” 

“Any challengers?” Octavia calls.

Bellamy pulls Clarke’s hands from his cheeks and presses his lips to her palm. It’s like she’s watching his heart break in real time. “I’m sorry.” 

The world moves in slow motion as Bellamy turns to the ring and bellows, “OCTAVIA.”

The silence and stillness that controlled the crowd falls away to hushed whispers and turned heads. Every pair of eyes in the place fixes on Bellamy, including the unnerving green gaze of his sister. 

“Bring him in,” she barks at her guards.

The crowd parts as Bellamy and the guards make their way toward each other. More bodies press into Clarke as they shift, and she curses her tank top. With the sheer number of strangers pressing against her, holding her own is reduced to reeling in her emotions and staying in her own head. If Bellamy were here to ground her, she’d stand a chance of getting them out. She wonders what the odds are now. He might never forgive her, but he’d be alive. That alone would be worthwhile. 

But the bodies crowd in on all sides, and Clarke can’t save him. A gun presses to his temple and a knife to his throat—things Clarke could stop in her sleep on a normal day but can’t do shit about now. Bellamy goes willingly. 

A man to Clarke’s left bangs his fist against the fence, breaking the silence with a chain link rattle that echoes through the arena. “Her name is _ Blodreina_,” he jeers. 

Octavia stands in the focus of the chaos, a rattlesnake full of venom and poised to strike. 

“Do you remember what I said the last time we saw each other?” she asks as the guards dump Bellamy at her feet. 

Bellamy lifts his chin, unnervingly calm. “Yes.”

Octavia looks him up and down, a dangerous gleam in her eye. “Suicide by sister, huh? Nice try.” 

She turns her back on Bellamy, her cape billowing from her shoulders as she paces the ring like a caged animal. She raises her fist, and the room explodes into chaos. 

“This man is a traitor and enemy of Wonkru. Who wants to prove themselves to the Red Queen?” 

Fists pound as people scream, throwing themselves at the cage and vying for Octavia’s eye. Clarke’s stomach tangles in knots. 

“Where is my champion?” 

A woman emerges from the crowd, her wild brunette hair tied back. Her eyes are clouded, her expression dark, and Clarke gathers that she takes no joy in being champion. Still, she readies for a fight, pulling her sleeves to her elbows and examining Bellamy as he rises. 

Octavia takes her seat on a throne overlooking it all. “Fight or die, big brother.” 

Bellamy keeps his eyes on Octavia despite the woman gearing up behind him. She lands a blow to his legs, knocking him to his knees.

“Everyone fights,” Octavia growls. 

He doesn’t. He just stares at his sister, trying to merge the woman before him with the girl he spent his life raising and protecting.

His opponent closes in, presumably for the kill. The crowd calls for it in defense of the monster on the throne. 

Just as her weapon swings through the air, Bellamy grabs her ankle and pulls her to the concrete, knocking her unconscious. Bloodthirsty chants continue, this time supporting Bellamy. 

“What is this, O?” Bellamy roars above them. “Because it looks like you read Ovid one too many times.” 

“They came to me for protection,” Octavia spits. 

He swipes some blood from the floor and throws it at Octavia. It blends in with the rest of her. “Does this look safe to you?” 

“I protect those who earn it, and they call on me when they’re in trouble.” 

“Can you hear them over the sound of people dying in here?” 

“Watch yourself,” Octavia says. 

“This isn’t protection. It’s a fucking joke.” 

Octavia speeds to the floor, toe to toe with Bellamy in a flash. Everyone tenses, silent in fear of what Bellamy might do to Octavia, but Clarke knows he won’t raise a hand against her. 

“I made a safe haven for people like us,” Octavia insists. “I am finishing what Lincoln started.” 

Bellamy clenches his jaw. “Lincoln would be ashamed of you.” 

The cage rattle crescendos as people anticipate the next move. Octavia looks at her brother: her head back, fangs ready, the strike coming.

Her first blow is a streak of crimson against the slate background. It hits Bellamy in the mouth, splattering blood to mix with the rest on the concrete. Miraculously, he stays on his feet. 

The crowd goes fucking wild. 

Bellamy watches Octavia with wide eyes, like he’d fooled himself into believing she might not hurt him until this moment. But his blood christens the concrete as proof. Blood means nothing to Octavia: a warrior wearing it, cloaked in it, protected by it. 

Two more blows in rapid succession. Octavia moves at human speed, drawing out the beating. Bellamy’s eyes are feral, his voice low as he grunts with the sheer impact of her punches. 

A hit to the gut. Knee to his ribs. Kick to his thigh. Octavia descends upon him in a frenzy, emboldened by the blood leaking from his mouth, his cheek, his leg. 

Bellamy finally falls with a kick to the ribs that lands with a sickening crunch. Clarke watches him gasp on the floor, his face dripping in a pool of blood that doesn’t belong solely to him, and she can’t take it anymore. 

_ No, please. _ His voice echoes in her head. One look at his face, eyes fixed on her, and Clarke knows she isn’t imagining it. _ Don’t stop this. I need to do this. _

_ You’ll die. _

_ And you’ll be exposed. _

Clarke pulls away to summon her suit, willing to risk lowering her walls if it means saving Bellamy. With her adrenaline pumping, she’s sure she can get it here. 

Bellamy senses her withdrawing. _ She’ll hunt you down if you stop this. You can’t outrun her. Think of Wells. _

A rough, freezing hand on Clarke’s arm pulls her away before she responds. “You’re awfully sober now, Griffin.”

It’s the man from the bar. Clarke should be terrified that he knows her name, but she can’t tear herself away from Bellamy bleeding on the concrete, his eyes foggy and unfocused, but still locked on her. Octavia takes her time with the next hit, comfortable Bellamy won’t fight back. 

“What do you want?” Clarke growls. 

“Your mother has been hunting me for years,” the man says in her ear. Clarke’s blood runs cold. 

He pulls her gaze his way, and though losing sight of Bellamy plants fear in Clarke’s heart, the man’s eyes aren’t hostile. 

“But Wells Jaha saved my life at a rally last year,” he continues. He glances at Bellamy. “My name is Roan. Can you save him?” 

The crowd devolves into bloodlust, jostling Clarke into Roan. She makes the split second decision to trust him. “I need space. Telepath,” she manages. 

Within seconds, Roan’s skin grows cold, and the ground underneath them frosts over. Those around them either move away or slip on the ice. 

Octavia revels in the chaotic roar as she gears up for the kill, vibrating with energy as she speeds up. 

Only for her fingertips to stop just short of Bellamy’s heart. 

Pain explodes in Clarke's head, hundreds of screaming thoughts rattling around her skull. There is so much hurt here: Bellamy's full-body agony, new wounds of today's fighters, the feral fear and terror of those in the crowd. Clarke isn't sure she can bear it all, but she doesn’t have a choice. Her insides twist with the effort of holding Octavia at bay. Her body moves so fast, every cell longing to phase through Bellamy’s chest, but Clarke holds steady. Octavia lost her claim on Bellamy’s heart years ago. He’s _ hers_. 

Octavia covers up her shock by toying with Bellamy, rallying the crowd and backing up to the cage.

Clarke stops her in her tracks. 

All the while she feels Bellamy’s eyes on her, hears his voice begging her to let this happen. She ignores both. Saving Bellamy is a selfish act—Clarke could not bear the world alone now that she has navigated it alongside him. 

So she stops Octavia. Again. And again. And again the younger Blake speeds into a blur, and each time Clarke stops her. The guards scan the crowd for interference, but Roan’s broad frame hides Clarke from view. 

The ground shakes with a rumble from upstairs, and Roan falls back. “They’re about to find something very wrong with their pipes. You’ll have three minutes to get out.”

“Thanks,” Clarke pants. “I owe you.” 

“Stop your mother and the debt will be paid, _ Psyren_.”

Clarke freezes, but Roan simply nods in respect before melting into the crowd. 

The pipes burst upstairs. 

Octavia looks away from Bellamy, her rage melting into something infuriatingly human. “Everyone out! To the bunker!” And damn her for sounding like she cares. Octavia puts herself in harm’s way, ushering people toward a set of doors and a second stairwell, even picking up the unconscious champion and zipping her to safety before rushing upstairs. 

Clarke races to Bellamy and chokes back a sob. She has only ever seen Nero like this, and never so broken, so black and blue. 

And red. So much red. The suit usually hides the bloodstains seeping into his blue shirt. 

There will be time to cry later. Right now, Clarke has two minutes to break them the fuck out. 

Bellamy’s chest flutters with shallow breaths, his skin is drenched with blood, and one of his eyes is swollen shut. Clarke wastes no time levitating him out of the ring, knowing he can’t stand. They fly up the floor, flattening anyone in their way, and bust out a window to escape into the cover of the night sky. 

His apartment is closer, but Clarke’s has the medical supplies she’ll need to keep him alive. She takes the risk of extra miles and flies faster than she ever has. The city blurs beneath them, and Clarke thinks of Roan, of Wells, of anything other than the broken man in her arms.

Clarke prays her neighbors are asleep and levitates Bellamy through her living room window. He stirs when she lays his body on the couch, wincing as his ribs shift on the lumpy cushions. The blood on his clothes will surely seep into the fabric, but that’s the least of Clarke’s worries. She’ll buy a new fucking couch.

Clarke knows she is many things to Bellamy—friend, medic, partner—but this moment calls for medic. The rest can come when she’s certain he won’t die on her. 

First order of business is his ribcage. The sickening crunch of Octavia’s kick plays on loop as Clarke summons scissors to cut off his shirt, taking care to steady her hands and keep his torso still. 

His ribs bloom with bruises, the skin angry shades of blue and purple even in the dim light. Each breath he takes stutters and drags like some sick kind of Morse code. Clarke almost wishes he passed out so he wouldn’t have to experience this, but at least his stubbornness is an endearing familiarity. 

“Bellamy…” Clarke breathes. His gaze drags to hers, and everything boils over at once: fear, relief, love, _ anger_. “Let me take away some of the pain.” 

“You should’ve left me,” he groans. 

Anger wins out. “Don’t you ever say that to me again.” 

He wheezes and stares at the ceiling. “You could’ve been found out—” 

“You would have _ died_,” she says, seething. “You said we were partners and then pulled this self-sacrificial bullshit.”

“I deserve it.” 

“Look at me,” Clarke insists. “Bellamy Blake, you look at me right now.” 

He swallows and blinks away the beginnings of tears, and his eyes find Clarke’s in the low light. 

Clarke kneels on the floor beside him and almost takes his face in her hands, but doesn’t for fear of hurting him. She can’t make out where the dried blood ends and his wounds begin. 

“You didn’t deserve any of that. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you were before. You are a good fucking person, Bellamy, in every way that matters. You did everything you could.” She brushes his hair out of his eyes. “But we are _ partners_. You said it yourself. Don’t go where I can’t follow, because nothing you say can convince me to let you go.”

Bellamy’s face is a shattered, mangled thing that Clarke doesn’t know how to put back together. She can heal his wounds, but emotional damage? Clarke doesn’t even know how to deal with her own. 

That can come later, though. Right now she needs to stitch him back together. 

“I’m gonna patch you up now, okay?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy nods weakly. 

The splotchy bruises only darken the longer he rests, though the swelling has thankfully slowed. Despite Clarke’s feather-light fingers, he still flinches when she lays them on his ribs to make sure they aren’t at risk of puncturing his lung. They aren’t. It’s a small victory. 

She runs a few concussion tests and determines that his concussion is mild. 

With as hard as Octavia was hitting Bellamy, he should be worse. Clarke can’t add fuel to the flame that is the torment his sister has put him through, can’t define only _ mildly _ concussing your brother as _ mercy_, so she keeps it to herself. 

When she finishes, Bellamy reaches for her. “Where do you need me?” 

“Can you make it to the bathroom? I can carry you if not.” 

The fog disappears as he eyes her frame with amusement. “Carry?” 

She taps her temple. “With my brain, Bell.”

“I’m good to walk,” he assures her. It’s either a lie or foolish optimism. 

Regardless, she gives him a pillow to hold his ribs in place while she hoists him to his feet. He’s all hard muscle and heavy weight, but their combined effort keeps him upright. 

Clarke eases the pillow from his arms and tosses it back. The moment her hand leaves him, he wavers, and Clarke has half a mind to ignore his assurance and carry him anyway. 

Her eyes find his swimming with hurt and hopelessness, and Clarke realizes he needs to stand to accept the help she’s giving him. 

Blood oozes from his right thigh as he steps forward, favoring the leg. On instinct, Clarke’s hands shoot out to help him, but there’s nowhere to touch that won’t hurt. 

Her hesitation must show, because Bellamy beckons her under the arm on his less injured side. With her arm around his waist and his around her shoulders, they stagger to the bathroom. 

Before he sits, Clarke gestures to the cut on his thigh. “Hold on. Pants off.” 

He smirks despite his pain. “All you ever had to do was ask, Princess.”

It’s instinct to shove him for those comments, rare as they are, but Clarke looks at the mess of him and busies her hands by helping him step out of his pants and settle on the closed toilet. Her med bag and a few ice packs zip in through the door while she looks through the cabinets for supplies. 

She catalogs his injuries in the fluorescent light: broken ribs, bruised torso and head, lacerated thigh, spare cuts. A fair amount of the blood isn’t his. He’ll be okay, she assures herself. He’s made it through worse. Clarke has helped him through worse. 

But she’s never helped him through _ this_—the way his eyes shatter as he fights back tears and falls apart at the seams. She has helped him through his past with the hallucinations, but that was a history Bellamy carried for years before. This heartbreak is still processing. 

Clarke takes the largest ice pack and nestles it against his broken ribs, pressing his opposite arm to hold it in place. He grimaces at the pressure and the shock of cold. 

Underneath the line of Bellamy’s boxers is an angry red gash, inflicted by the sharp edge of Octavia’s armor. It takes next priority. 

Clarke grabs her suture kit and kneels between Bellamy’s legs, the cold tile unforgiving against her knees. His eyes burn into the side of her head as she situates herself. 

Bellamy catches her hand before she can disinfect his thigh, holding it to the light to examine it. His gaze travels up her arm, across her collarbone, down to the gloved hand resting on his leg. Clarke lets him examine her while she gauges the severity of his wound. 

The tip of his pointer finger slides under her chin, his touch cold from the ice pack. His thumb presses into the cleft in her chin to tip her face to the light, and it’s so achingly gentle. Relief and confusion mar his face when he finds her unharmed, and Clarke finds herself unable to watch him. 

Guilt courses through her as she catches Bellamy’s hand and traces his knuckles with her fingers. His hands are clean; scarred, but not broken. He refused to fight. 

Her heart sinks and swells at the reminder of who he was versus who he’s become. Fighting back tears, she presses her lips to his knuckles before laying his hand back on the ice pack. 

Bellamy’s voice croaks. “How did you get us out?” 

Clarke wipes his leg and swallows the memory of fear. “That guy from the bar knew who I was and found me. Apparently Wells helped him a while back and he wanted to pay it forward. He froze the pipes upstairs to give us a way out. He also kept people away from me so I could—” Her fingers fumble with her suture kit— “So I could stop your sister.”

She sinks the needle into his skin and makes the first stitch. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but if you want to, I’m here.” He looks doubtful or reserved—the two are so hard to tell apart on him—so Clarke adds, “You don’t have to carry the past with you. If you need to put it down, I—”

Bellamy squeezes her shoulder. “Just trying to figure out where to start.”

Clarke rests her cheek against the back of his hand for a moment, her gloves bloodied. “Take your time.” She sets about the next stitch. 

“Alpha was right about one thing: my mom was dangerous. Before she got sick…” He screws his eyes shut, whether at the needle or the memory, Clarke isn’t sure. “There’s a lot to unpack. I’m sorry.” 

“We’ve got time,” she assures him. 

“My mom was a phaser,” he says. “She could walk through walls like a ghost or become so dense nothing could go through her. Something about being pregnant with O messed up her control—I don’t know if it was postpartum or something deeper, it’s not like we could go to a doctor. She got sick. Couldn’t control her phasing. She would phase through something and solidify too early. It looked like she was glitching. And if she did that with a person, they were dead on the spot. It’s like—" His breath hitches. “How Octavia can run through people when she goes fast enough.” _ Like she almost killed me. _

Clarke ties off another stitch and continues, content to listen. She gets the notion that Bellamy needs this to be more of a confessional than a dialogue. The combination of her kneeling between his legs and him proclaiming the pain of his past feels like a sacrament. So many sins hang in the stilted air of the bathroom, though for once they aren’t their own. Instead Clarke passes judgment on Alpha, on Bellamy’s mother, on his sister. 

He treks forward, a faraway light in his eyes as he occasionally stumbles over his words from the pain. 

“She couldn’t touch us, especially not baby O.” He swallows. “So I raised her. Got a job, ran errands, taught her after I got out of school, all that. And then one day I came home to my mom out of bed and O zipping around the house—no powers, just energy from being cooped up. And my mom goes straight through her. Octavia is hurt, and she’s crying, and she’s moving too fast. She’s had speed ever since.” His head hangs with the weight of grief, and Clarke knows this is another self-assigned burden on his shoulders. 

“How old was she?” 

“Ten.”

Clarke wants to offer him comfort, but she knows him. Instead she asks, “What happened to your mom?” 

“I snuck O out of the house. We were just going to go down the block, so I thought I could keep her safe. She ran through a kid right outside the doorstep. Alpha came for my mother within the hour. They didn’t know about O, so my mom made me take her and run.” 

Tears well up behind his lashes, and Clarke gets the feeling he wants her to look away, so she does. His thigh is almost halfway closed. On another day, she’d be faster, but she doesn’t want to make talking harder than it has to be.

“I’m so sorry, Bellamy. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.” 

“But it is. And I did,” he insists. “She warned me every goddamn day.” 

“You just wanted to do what was best for your sister.” 

“And look where that got me,” he snaps. 

Clarke digs the needle in, and he winces, his stoic mask wearing down. 

“Things were quiet after I finished the job with Alpha. We weren’t on the run anymore, and I was just… existing. I never had time to exist before. I didn’t know what to do with it. O wanted to move on—she even met someone, Lincoln—but I was so angry. I was angry at Alpha for taking my mother and forcing my sister and I on the run, and that anger had nowhere to go. That’s when Pike found me.” 

“Pike?” 

“Charles Pike. He never told anyone about his powers, but he was one hell of a shot—ex-military. He hunted Alpha workers along with anyone who was vocal about their hatred of metas, using troubled meta youth to execute his plans. He took them in with the promise of protection, and in exchange, he had an army. Pike was a lot like Alpha. I still have a hard time— It’s hard to admit, but the fear-mongering, taking advantage of poor youth, wanting to wipe the other side off the map. It’s all there. I still have a hard time shaking off the rhetoric he drilled into us, but it wasn’t… It wasn’t the same— It was a _ response _to Alpha. It—” 

Clarke looks up, and he falls silent. There are so many things she wants to say to him, but she doesn’t think any would bring him comfort. 

Bellamy’s shoulders stiffen like he’s awaiting judgment. Clarke softens her face, and he squeezes her shoulder again, a silent _ thank you. I’m sorry. _

“O and Lincoln came to work for him because of me, but Lincoln… he didn’t buy Pike’s rhetoric. He said we should work on saving metas instead of killing humans. He saved the life of an Alpha intern when I choked, and Pike was going to kill him for it.”

“Wait.” Clarke ties off the last stitch. “You choked?” She keeps her tone soft, coaxing. 

Bellamy looks at the floor. “This girl, she was just filing papers. She was an intern, probably unpaid, in college, and scared. Scared of _ me_. And that was gratifying when killing was for revenge, but this was an execution. I wouldn’t let myself believe Lincoln until that moment. I hesitated, and Lincoln took off with her. Pike found out.

“I told O, but she didn’t trust me. Being around Pike changed me. I wasn’t a good brother those days. She’d heard from Lincoln that I was going to kill that girl, and she chained me in the warehouse while she went to find Lincoln. She made it just in time to watch Pike put a bullet in his brain. So she killed him where he stood. Being a good shot doesn’t protect you when your opponent is faster than your bullets. She ran right through him, but there was no bringing Lincoln back. That’s when… what you saw… That was the last time I saw her.” 

Clarke bandages his thigh and tries to think of something, anything, to say. 

“You did everything you could.” 

“I should have done more. I didn’t protect her, I… I did this to her.” 

Clarke rises, her knees groaning from the abuse of the tile floor. She makes quick work of her bloody gloves and stands in the vee of Bellamy’s legs, combing her fingers through his hair. Unwilling to leave his side, she wets a rag with her mind. 

A tear falls, muddying with blood as it blazes a trail down Bellamy’s cheek. 

Clarke wipes it all away with the warm rag. “You didn’t want that to happen. You tried to stop it. Octavia made her own choices.”

She holds his cheek, tilting his head back to wipe around his swollen black eye. The area is tender, bruising. He winces with each pass of her fingers despite her efforts to stay gentle. 

The rag bloodies as his skin clears and the freckles that aren’t obscured by bruises come into view. He looks like a hasty watercolor version of a person, like his colors bled outside the lines of himself. Aside from a few lacerations, most of the damage is internal: bruises, swelling, broken ribs. Clarke cleans him up, bandages what she can, and rotates the ice pack over the rest, all the while helpless to protect Bellamy from his pain. 

Another tear falls, this time running clear on clean skin. Clarke puts down the rag and wipes it away with her thumb, and that seems to be the breaking point. 

Bellamy collapses into Clarke’s chest, his lungs heaving with his sobs. It sounds so much louder in the cramped bathroom, each shuddering breath audible in the stilted space. 

“Easy,” Clarke whispers, messaging his scalp. There are only so many places she can hold him. “It’s okay to cry, but you gotta breathe, Bell. Your ribs.”

He doesn’t, or he can’t. When his gasps turn to wheezes, he presses her fingertips to his temple, inviting her in. His arm around her waist pulls her closer, like he’s taking shelter in the refuge of her body. 

Clarke can’t give Bellamy artificial euphoria or control his emotions, but she can draw on her own. She focuses on the complete and utter relief of him being alive, on every ounce of gratefulness her body holds, and she sends it to him until his breathing slows to something manageable. 

She pulls out of his mind and kisses his forehead, mindful of the bruises. His eyes flutter open—the swollen one as much as it's able—and his molten gaze takes Clarke’s breath away. 

Closer, _ closer_. She tilts his chin up. His arm tightens around her. 

Something about the movement jostles his ribs, and he jerks back with a cry of pain. Clarke is immediately back in doctor mode: checking his chest, moving the ice pack, guiding him through controlled breaths. Whatever passed over them dies. 

With his major wounds managed, Clarke presses the smaller ice pack to his eye while he holds the one on his ribs. 

“I understand why you’re upset about Charlotte now,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, I am too, but it makes sense—you seeing your sister in her.” 

Bellamy hangs his head. “I failed them both.” 

“You didn’t fail her. We’re doing everything we can.” 

“I was on watch, it was my—”

“Bellamy, I swear to god, you are not a one-man army,” Clarke insists. “You couldn’t save your mother, or your sister, or Charlotte, and _ that’s okay. _ You’re human.” She ditches the ice pack and cups his cheeks. “You are one person. A person with powers, but still only one person.” 

He scoffs bitterly.

“And you’ve saved me too many times to count. Twice just today. I’m still standing because of you. If nothing else, you’ve saved me.” She softens and tangles one hand at the back of his neck. “Why did you go in that arena?” 

Bellamy tries to avert his gaze, but Clarke holds him in place. 

His jaw ticks in her palm. “Because I deserve it.” 

The air leaves Clarke’s lungs. She had hoped that was the grief and blood loss talking earlier. 

“Did you honestly think I’d let you die?” she breathes. 

“I hoped.” 

“That’s never going to happen.” 

Bellamy’s resolution doesn’t waver. “I deserve it and you deserve better.” 

A wave of desperate anger washes over Clarke. “No. This isn’t about what you think I deserve. You don’t get to decide that. I _ want you_, Bellamy. And you do not deserve to die like that. You deserve something peaceful, to go grey beside people you love and laugh in a fucking rocking chair.” An idea comes to her, a reckless, desperate thing. “Let me show you.”

He looks at her, speechless, and gives in.

Clarke pulls from her memory, depicting Bellamy as she sees him: under starlight, holding Charlotte, saving Clarke, protecting civilians, laughing on Clarke’s couch, helping her with Wells, looking at her fiercely in the coffee shop bathroom. 

Then her gut twists, and the memories take a turn. 

Bellamy shielding her, a stranger, from prying eyes at the gallery; his fingers on her skin as Clarke considers staying for more than a night; his eyes searching her face when she finds out his identity, the way they both lean in before snapping to their senses. The images pile on top of each other, melting into one warm, solid image of _ Bellamy_. Clarke holding his head in her lap after hallucinating, his arms around her after—steady, secure, safe. It’s not who he has always been; it’s who he’s become. 

_“That’s _ who you are.” She pulls back to wipe fresh tears from his face. “Don’t expect me to let that go. Don’t ask that of me.”

His breath evens, his chest rising and falling without the signature stutter of broken ribs. Clarke maps the bruises on his body, the patchwork of pain the night has made of him.

Only the space above his heart is unharmed, protected by Clarke at all costs. 

She presses her palm against it to feel his heart thumping away. He’s alive. He’s alive and he’s here and Clarke has never been happier to have someone with her. 

“The bruises will heal,” she says, leaning into his space, trailing her fingers on his chest. She stays in the confines of unharmed skin. “Every bruise before has. Same with your scars. You’ve survived so much, Bellamy. You are more than what your pain has made you. Look at all the good you’ve made from your pain, too.” 

“That was you,” he protests. 

Clarke shakes her head. “You made the choices. You did the work. You just weren’t alone this time.” 

Bellamy leans into her hand, his face full of gratitude as his eyelids droop. 

Exhaustion sets in. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

“I’ll take the couch,” he mumbles. 

“That’s cute. Bed.” 

Clarke abandons the ice packs and wound care on the counter to wrap around Bellamy, and together they stagger across the hallway to her bedroom. Exhaustion undermines Bellamy’s protests, making it easy for Clarke to nag him into letting her tuck him in. Despite his annoyed tone of voice, his eyes gleam at her in the warm light of her bedside lamp. 

Once he’s settled, Clarke makes for the door. “Alright, I’ll be on the couch if you need—”

Bellamy catches her wrist. “Please… stay. I’m going to dream tonight.” 

She takes one glance at him, fragile and scared in her bed, and nods. “Okay, I’ll stay.” 

The moment the door closes between them for Clarke to pull on pajamas, anxiety sets into her bones. This is for the best, Bellamy staying with her. Leaving him alone all night might have left Clarke too worried to sleep. 

She slips under the covers, hyper aware of the nearly naked man next to her as she tries to get comfortable without jostling him. He looks so peaceful on his back, the covers high like they’ll protect him from the horrors of the day. Clarke’s fingers itch to tangle with his, but she can’t risk losing control and causing him more pain in sleep. 

Clarke tucks on her side and faces his silhouette, memorizing the slope of his nose, the soft parting of his lips, the curve of his throat. The details embed themselves deep in Clarke’s mind, perhaps for the next time she gets her hands on some paints. 

A soft sigh escapes Bellamy as he succumbs to sleep, and tears spring to Clarke’s eyes at the sound. Adrenaline finally leaves her bloodstream and allows her to process the utter shock that was tonight: the loving and losing, the sacrificing and saving. 

She lets herself cry. She curls in on herself and puts down the burden she would gladly bear to keep Bellamy safe. Because right now, he is. 

She lets herself venture down the path where he isn’t safe, the grim possibilities she couldn’t focus on in the heat of the moment. Roan, recognizing Clarke and leaving Bellamy to die. Octavia, too fast to stop. Here, safe with the blurry outline of Bellamy beside her, Clarke lets herself explore the possibility. 

All that registers is devastation. So many facets of her life and livelihood rely on having Bellamy by her side. The fight with Alpha, sure, but he’s embedded in her day to day. She texts him for art advice (or under the pretense of art advice when she needs encouragement), when she sees a good meme, when sleep won’t come. He comes over to grade papers while she paints, initially claiming the white noise is good for him before routine and the comfort of company became the only excuses needed. He’s the only person she can touch without thinking twice. He has seen the ugliest parts of her and not only stayed, but trusted her with his own ugliness. 

She could have lost all of that today. 

Bellamy’s voice treads on the heavy silence. “Hey, Princess. You okay over there?” 

Clarke doesn’t bother to wipe her tears. “I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he says softly. 

“Just decompressing.” 

He purses his lips, and his hand shifts under the covers like he wanted to reach for her, but thought against it. “You’ll wake me if you need me?” 

“As long as you’ll do the same.” Unable to resist the pull to him, Clarke reaches across the bed and smooths his hair off his forehead, then retreats to her side of the bed. “Goodnight, Bellamy.” 

“‘Night, Clarke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Pitch black, pale blue**  
**These wild oceans shake what's left of me loose**  
**Just to hear me cry mercy**  
**The strong wind at my back**  
**So I'll lift up the only sail that I have**  
**This tired white flag**  

> 
> I'd apologize but I'm not sorry. You saw the angsty tags and you clicked. I'm just doing what I said I would. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or want updates on fics, the best places to go is my tumblr (@piningbellarke)! I'll do my best to get back to everything here as well, but that's the fastest place to reach me if you're interested. Thank you for reading!!


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